A working man's black lunchbox with a a round top where the thermos fit. Written on the outside in white script, Joe. On the inside the box was white, room for a couple of wax paper wrapped bologna sandwiches, maybe an orange and some Fritos. My old man would slurp from the brim topped cup, his first sip of coffee with milk and sugar. I've been drinking coffee ever since then. Bluegreen was my favorite crayon. Forty-seven years later the box sits in a garage filled with an assortment of dust coated screws, nuts and washers. That is a lot of years, that is a lot of coffee, that is a lot of dust.