Opening Margo’s Hope Chest
When Margo and I married in 1972, she brought with her a cedar hope chest. I opened it last week for the first time in many years, not knowing what she had left inside.
Inside I found her wedding dress, a carefully
packed paper bag of our son Scott’s baby clothes from his first year, several
big afghans crocheted by her mother, a few old photos of us, and even a green
plastic salad bowl set.
We were married March 4, 53 years ago. I was
living in a tiny efficiency apartment then, and Margo was still at home.
Together we rented a two-bedroom apartment starting March 1. With two incomes
we didn’t need to feel cramped at my place. In the three days before the
wedding, Margo and her parents moved her personal belongings — including that
large cedar chest — into our apartment. The place was furnished, even the
kitchen was stocked, but we still needed our own clothing, linens, radio, and
TV. Our wedding shower and later wedding gifts helped fill in the rest.
I came into the marriage with a single set of
sheets, a pillow, and a few well-worn towels. Margo came ready to make a home.
That cedar chest was filled with linens, towels, and household items she had
been gathering since she was 13, when her parents gave her a Lane Cedar Chest —
as Life Magazine advertised then, a girl’s preparation for marriage. “Someday,”
her mother had told her, “you’ll fall in love and marry, and this chest will
help you prepare for that.”
I don’t remember every item that was in the
chest, but I do remember one very well. On our wedding night, just after
midnight, Margo and I came to our new apartment — me still in my tuxedo and she
still in her wedding dress. I helped her out of the dress and hung it up. Then
she opened the chest, took out a package, and went to the bathroom to change. A
few minutes later she came shyly into the bedroom wearing a short, frilly,
see-through nightgown she had saved for that moment. (We will close the scene
there and leave the rest to your imagination.)
The next morning I asked her, “What exactly is
a hope chest?”
“For ten years,” she told me, “I’ve been
putting things in it, dreaming about starting my own home — and about who my
husband would be. I looked for nice sheets and pillowcases, towels for the
kitchen and bathroom. Mom said most of the basics would come from the shower
and wedding gifts, so I filled the chest with the special things — the fancy
ones, the handwork I made, and the things we might not be able to afford at
first. Every time I put something in, I imagined the man I would marry. I think
of it as a chest of dreams.”
Last week, when I opened it again, I found
that carefully taped paper bag filled with Scott’s first-year clothes. Tiny
sleepers, little jackets, a baby blanket — each one still carrying a memory. I
could picture her folding them neatly, tucking them away because they marked
such a joyful time. Having only one child, those clothes were treasures to her,
a way to hold onto the wonder of being a new mother.
I wish I could remember every item that was in
the chest when we married. What I do remember is how it symbolized her hope and
preparation for the life we were going to share. I used to tease her that I had
always hoped to get a woman with a chest — and I was very satisfied that my
dream came true.
Opening it now brought back those first years
together and reminded me of the life we built from the contents of that chest —
and from the love that filled it. I feel honored to have been the man who lived
out the dreams she had packed away, one hopeful piece at a time.
Opening that chest felt like opening her heart
again — and remembering that I was the man she had been saving all those hopes
for.
It has been a hard day here, saying yet another goodbye to Margo — the woman who filled that cedar chest with her hopes and dreams and trusted me to share them for a lifetime. She’s been gone seven months now, but opening the chest brought her back to me for a while, as if the dreams inside could still whisper her love.
