Yesterday morning I heard that the McDonalds three blocks down was looking for people, so I vowed that I would for once be proactive, get out of the house and get a real job for myself before my finances were in a crisis. Did amazingly well sticking to that vow; I made it out the door and down an entire block before I started to find ways to distract myself.
Said that the reason I was going into the park was so I could relax and clear my head before applying. Was just going to spend a short time there, only enough to walk a single lap around the park. Then, I would finally make my way to the restaurant.
Instead I spent the entire day wandering around the trails in the park. Had to take some of the more overgrown paths to avoid the walkers and joggers going around the place. Didn’t want to have to interact with anyone, even if it was just saying hello to a stranger. Lap after lap, each time telling myself that I was only going to stay for a little longer, each time delaying my trip a bit more.... By the time I left the park, the sun was setting. That gave me the excuse to go back home. No point in applying for a job so late in the day.
I hated myself for what I did there. The loathing hit the moment I stepped through my door. Was I really not able to just do this one thing? Was it really that hard just to walk over to the place? Another day, wasted away.
Didn't want to dwell on my new failure, so I began to do whatever I could to put my mind off it. Cooked more food than I could hope to eat, read a book, wasted hours on the internet. Soon began to run out of things which were distracting me enough, so I began cleaning (for the first time in months). Really threw myself into it; the layer of books covering my floor was sorted, windows were shined until spotless, rooms I hadn't entered in months were carefully cleaned and dusted, so on and so forth. This house is much bigger than I need it to be. I only really use three of the rooms (bedroom, kitchen, bathroom). The rest I only interact with if they happen to be on the route I take between any of those three. Those which aren’t on the paths remain exactly as they were when I moved in, furniture untouched and wallpaper peeling back from lack of repair.
My cleaning eventually took me upstairs, to the attic. The place was filled with old family heirlooms, dating back to when my ancestors had crossed the Atlantic to join the colonies. I'd gone through them all once, when I first moved in, but realized most of it was junk. I suppose I could have thrown most of it away, or sold it, but I never got around to doing that.
When I entered the attic this time, I felt a slight breeze waft past me. There shouldn't have been any wind up there; no windows. I may need to look around for cracks in the walls later. Would have done it then, but my attention was being held by the black box lying in the center of the room.
Of course I have a black box in the attic; why would I ever have said that I didn't? I remember it so clearly now, it seems ridiculous that I could have forgotten it. The weathered old wooden box, colored black not from any paint, but from the burn marks along its entire frame. Of course it's always been there. Like the post on this blog said, there was an envelope on top of the box, and inside that envelope was an old key. The envelope was covered in dust, as though it had been laying on top of that box for years. Can't imagine why I never thought to open it up before.
Took some time to get the lock to work; age hadn’t been kind on it. Not really sure what I expected; a part of me was really hoping for the box to be filled with solid gold bars, but the part of my mind more grounded in realism understood the unlikelihood of that.
What I did find was several pieces of very old paper, a torn up leather bound book, and a stack of yellowed envelopes. Not exaggerating when I emphasize how old the contents were; the dates on the envelopes were from the 1880s. The piece which drew my attention the most was a rolled up wanted poster, offering $800 for the capture of a woman named Elizabeth Wells.
First time I’ve heard that I had an outlaw as an ancestor. Knew the family moved out to the West after the Civil War for a few generations before coming back to the east coast, but never heard any details about it. The entire box is full of things relating to her; the letters are all addressed to her, and the book appears to be a journal she kept. Suppose it could be a coincidence, that she has the same last name and a box in my home is filled with her things, but she’s got a very strong family resemblance; the same black hair that I and every relative I know on her head, same narrow face. I’m becoming a bit fascinated by this; it may not be gold bars, but it’s something almost as interesting. Might post transcripts of what I find here. It’ll give me something to do with all the spare time I have.
-Lisa
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