I love it when stuff fits in boxes. I love it so much that I buy cool boxes in the hope that someday I will have something to put inside them. I love it so much that when I move, I discover my attic contains, for the most part, empty cool boxes. I love the story of Eeyore, happily putting broken balloons into an empty honey pot, happy as a clam with containerization.

My new acrylic paints fit in this box that held specialty teas. I felt bad, spending the $4 on the box. Imagine my joy in discovering it was perfect for the paints.

The markers fitting in the round Godiva chocolates hat box was another happy serendipity.

My dad used to order Ballantine Ale shipped from Newark, NJ to Scottsdale, AZ. I keep art supplies in one of his old crates. On the top is a division problem worked out in my mom's handwriting. I had a panic attack when a friend almost put it out for the trash!

This straw bag with the neat leather trim holds the plastic bags necessary to polite dog-walking in genteel neighborhoods. I would hang it up even if it held nothing, as the leather bag beside it does.

This antique tool chest holds my jewelry. I love the box more than its contents.

This antique case for dentist equipment holds art supplies. The handle on top belies its weight, even empty. Never mind getting my mind around the idea of a traveling dentist in the era before Novocaine.

I have cleverly posted my container success stories. Untold here are the stories of the empty boxes that take up space, but are too winsome to pitch, and the terrible stories of the things I can in no wise find because they are in a cool box, somewhere, and I don't have a clue which one. If I am to be honest, there are a LOT of those stories. I confess that, partly because confession is good for the soul, and partly to reduce competition for the next four-dollar tea caddy at the Salvation Army.