It started well before the unpacking, but became a mystery with the unpacking. For years, we’d relieve family members of obscure boxes as their downsizing eliminated storage space. Down to our basement or up to our attic or into our garage they went. “One day soon, we’ll go through these and clean them out.” One day, but not that particular day. And so when the Kendal phone call came, and we signed on all the dotted lines, those boxes came with us. Still taped up. Still unexplored.
During our just-arrived time when boxes were being—if not cheerfully, then arduously—opened, objects were laid out in a flurry on every flat surface available, awaiting their final resting places. In achieving (sort of) that second task of resting places, we came across an item whose use neither of us could fathom. Nor could we figure out whose family it came from. It simply appeared out of nowhere.
For the past 3 years, we’ve contemplated just tossing it. But what would we be tossing? Made of wood, with metal fittings at either pointy end, it was elongated and hollow in its middle. The other day, it turned up again and, upon very, very, very close inspection, we found a set of numbers and tossed those numbers, along with the accompanying word “Southern,” into the computer. To our immense surprise, about six other of its ilk immediately popped up.
Now, Marilyn Bottjer is going to know immediately what it is. But here are its pictures (top, bottom, sides) and what we have learned about it:
