Your stories

About the author

My name is Gaynor Davies, and I was born in the suburbs of Liverpool, 57 years ago. I lived and worked in that area until 1994, when I began my new and idyllic life here in the Lake District.

My story, Boxes, relates to the memories from my early childhood, helped by the foresight of my dear mum. The joy that this idea has brought to me, has prompted me to make a box for my son, to hopefully record his life from my point of view.

Inside Lives has been most enjoyable and has provoked the wish to continue similar courses should they arise. It has been extremely rewarding, especially listening to the kaleidoscope of other stories.

The boxes

“We really should sort them out soon”. These were my brother’s words after almost every conversation with him. The time had come to collect my box, and go through the contents.

Shoeboxes

It was while clearing out furniture and possessions of my dear mum after her death, that these four shoe boxes, all aged and battered, came to see the light of day. Found in the bottom of a wardrobe, each one was tied up with parcel string, obviously re-cycled from previous packages. All were labelled clearly with the names of myself and my three siblings, each box bursting with its undiscovered but mysterious contents.

I was against my brother’s idea of us all opening them together over a bottle of wine. I was still feeling raw over her sad death, so with privacy and time on my hands, I felt the emotional strength to open my box.

With a mixture of apprehension and anticipation, I removed the string and took off the lid. The contents were wrapped carefully in several layers of yellowing, aged tissue, and there in front of me was a catalogue of my early life. On the top of the pile were school reports, mostly with plenty of “good” and “well done” reflecting the fact that I loved school, and did well thanks to the dedicated and excellent teaching staff who’s signatures brought back vivid and fond memories of the formative years of my life.

Other items included swimming certificates, a collection of badges from Brownie, Guide and Ranger days, all carefully unpicked with pride from sleeves of the respective uniforms of that time. There was a butterfly brooch that I remember giving my mum for one of the many mother’s days that we always thought so special. At the bottom of the box was a well worn and often handled plastic bag, containing yards of beautifully ironed and much used satin ribbon, together with a two foot long plait of my hair, which I had never once had cut until I was fifteen years old. I remember vividly the light-headed feeling that came when my hair was cut; plaits, at fifteen, were not cool!

My brother and sisters never divulged the contents of their individual boxes, so mine remained a secret too. I was really touched to know that my mother, as a young widow with four school age children, had such pride in our progress that she wanted to gather together these keepsakes for our future. Her need to record the past has given me the box that remains one of my most treasured possessions.

Click on the link on the top RHS of this page to hear the author reading their own story