rainbows and boxes

It was oddly calming to sort through piles of embroidery floss, winding the long strands around little plastic bobbins and then arranging them nicely into some kind of color scheme. I discovered that you don't actually have to order them exactly to enjoy the harmony of color, but you can always turn to a good book to help you figure out which color goes where if you really want to.

I have another muddled bundle left over from old cross stitch projects that I need to sort through but for some silly reason I once decided it would be a good idea to cut them into smaller pieces so now arranging them on the bobbins is quite annoying.

I started cross stitching and embroidering when I was younger, thanks to my aunt. She lived far away from us and we only saw her now and then, when they came to visit us in Italy or on our odd visit to the United States. She is an extremely talented quilter and crafter and my parents' home is filled with items she made for us. I remember receiving postal packages from her and my grandmother and it was always so exciting to come home from school to find a little yellow note in the mail box, telling us we had a package waiting for pick up at the main post office. We'd go there with mom in the afternoon after school, trying to get there before they closed at 4 o'clock. Waiting patiently in line for the older folks that were there to collect their pension, or pay their telephone bills. I have vague memories of running up and down a ramp outside the front of the building. When our turn finally came we'd hand the clerk our note, and she's pull out a big "quaderno" - a note book. She'd look for our name (it was always quite easy to spot the complicated Iranian name amongst all the common Italian names) and make us sign. Then she'd get off her chair, and go hunt in the back for our box. Sometimes it was small enough to slip through the slim slot in front of her, but more often than not it was so big she's have to use side door.
There were always the most wonderful and bizarre combination of treats in those boxes: hand made goodies, gobstoppers, cross stitch samplers and supplies, old photos, Hot Tamales, taco mix seasoning - all the kind of stuff you could never find in Italy.
All the gifts, the box, the packing paper and the packaging had a unique, particular smell. They smelled like America. To this day, every time I step off a plane returning from somewhere outside of the US I smell that same exact smell. I am not sure what it is, a medley of plastic, sugar and air conditioning maybe, but it immediately reminds me of those boxes, those gifts and all the love and joy they brought us from the other side of the ocean.