I Cried and I Wondered......

Last week, the Fireman decided it was time to go through some old papers stored in boxes under the stairway in our walk-out basement. There were old checks, receipts, junk mail (I don't know why!) and other "stuff" that we have not looked at, or obviously needed, for years. Some of it was from as far back as the 70's. The paper shredder was red hot for days as he sorted and examined each paper in those boxes.

Of course I had admonished him not to shred anything like pictures, cards, drawings by kids; you know, the important stuff. He actually listened to me, something as rare as the Hope diamond!

Sandee, my middle daughter, has been here visiting and working for the past week. She always dens up in the basement where she has her own private bedroom, bath, and a comfortable family room where she can work on her computer while watching whatever she chooses on the television or sleep the day away if she feels like it. Poor thing was living in what I was later to find.

I rarely go down there except to do laundry, but a couple of days ago, I gutted-up and went on into the living area. Last time I was in there, if was clean, neat and everthing was in it's place; this time it looked like someone had set a bomb off down there.




The Fireman had not only taken the boxes out of storage, he had emptied half the damn storage room. The counters on the wet bar were covered, the small dining table was covered, the end tables and coffee tables were covered with this and that....stuff I didn't even remember owning. Along with all this mess were the empty boxes from the paper shredding and stacks of the precious stuff I'd asked him not to destroy before I could sort through it. I knew he was finished with his rare burst of ambition and I was left to clean up the disaster area. Been doin' it for years. I looked around wondering where to start and asking myself why I let him near that room. I heaved a great sigh and started to dig in, putting things I couldn't bare to part with back into the boxes. It had only been a minute or two when I picked up what appeared to be an old, hand written letter. I opened it. The first thing I read was; June 1, 1951. Pocatello, Idaho.

Dear Beth, it began................................I read the letter, words on both sides, written on what appeared to be ruled paper from a school tablet. After finishing, I held it close to my heart and cried fifty-seven years worth of pent-up tears and wondered, why?

To be continued..................................................