Bev’s Box: keeping numbers even

    Greetings from the Ridge.
    Every time I try to close out a year on my calendar I think of Bev’s box. She and her husband Myron lived just around the corner from us for over thirty years and the gal was one of my dearest friends. For years I’d enjoy fresh ground coffee in her elegant living room. The woman could decorate a turtle and make it tasteful. I’d sit chatting with Bev and she’d give a delightful narration of the various objects around the room. . . her grandmother’s treadle sewing machine, her great-grandmother’s washboard, a piece of carnival glass she’d picked up at a flea market, and a collection of what Bev called “little glass nothings.” But prominent in one corner of the room sat an object that seemed completely wrong. Right there amid this lovely collection of a lifetime sat an ugly wooden box that seemed shockingly out of place. To tell you the truth, it was such an ugly thing that I hesitated to ask its history, but one day my curiosity won out and she saw me staring. “You’re wondering about my box, Freida?” I told her that I’d been curious for the last twenty years. “It’s got a story.” And she told it.
 

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