Even though it had been more than 2 years since we moved in here there were still a few unpacked boxes. So when the tree and decorations were down and packed away, and the cookies and goodies are all on gone, I decided to clear out some unused items. Also, and probably more motivating, the weather was blustery and cold, like now, and staying indoors actually sounds good.
I found some stuff that I didn't remember buying, some stuff I could use and a few boxes that hadn't been opened since the last time we relocated. Two of the boxes contained random kitchenalia, but the 3rd, contained things that weren't mine.
Perhaps
it was left in this house by a former occupant, I could return it. The smallest box also the oldest looking one, contained carefully wrapped odds and ends, doilys, a small coin purse with earrings in it, photos , a couple of well used/read books and an Autograph book. Haven't seen one of those in decades.
Only a first name , Clara, was written on the inside back cover of the book and nothing else in the book, or the box, to tell me who it might have belonged to. My intention was to ask around and find out, could anyone remember Clara. No one could.
Days later, with the snow still swirled around the house and the wind mading the overgrown rose canes clatter on the window, I sat watching the storm. Clara's Autograph book, was in the litter of unopened mail and half finished correspondence, and half mended wool socks on the table next to me. Again I read thru the the poems and witty sayings, some in polished script and some in that youthful and hesitant script, searching for something that might tell me who Clara was. I came upon something that, had once been written in my autograph book by my third grade teacher. Sadly nothing more was found that could identify who the mysterious Clara was, or may-be still is.
Meaningful, and true today as it was then.
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