The house is quickly becoming little more than bare bones with heaps of old furniture piled in the empty spaces, most of which will likely end up in one of the dumpsters cycling in and out of the driveway. Today, Jay is bringing in some sort of antiques specialist to help us go through the mess and identify which items are salvageable and which items are destined for the dump. I am more excited to be clearing out the clutter than I am to be finding the treasures hidden within the mix. Perhaps that is shortsighted of me? But there is this part of me that is feeling increasingly trapped by the molding cushions and rotting wood and broken junk. Preserving history is one thing, and it is important. Preserving the sanity of the living is also important, and I feel as though this old house and I have mutually exclusive needs most of the time.

　　Before Jay gets here, I`ve been working on demolishing a section of the mansion in the attic: a series of small bedrooms. Servants` quarters. There isn`t much furniture in these rooms. Those lucky enough not to have been looted have a bed, a simple bedside table, a wash basin and a chest of drawers. The beds are disgusting, the remaining cloth and stuffing existing in various stages of decay. The mold thriving where things have sat damp and unwashed through many years of abandonment. The walls I`m currently hammering belong to a room with a shattered wash basin that was once presumably white littering the floor. It is now a sickly gray color for the dust its broken shards have accumulated.

　　The walls break apart easily where the rot has set in, making the few sections of the wall that remain without blight obvious. I prefer the walls that actually put up a fight. They are more satisfying, and the moldy walls sometimes shatter unexpectedly in gloppy splatters. There must be a leaky roof draining into this room- something to watch for when I start the repair work.

　　The walls come down, and I begin the clean up, piling debris onto large tarps that can be fitted with nylon ropes tied to carabiners on either end for easier transport. I carry the loaded tarps down the stairs and to the dumpster one at a time, the shattered wash basin swept up with the splinters and added to the dumpster in turn. It`s as I`m digging out the last of the wall boards that I see it: a tin box with a slip-on lid. I feel drawn to it- perhaps it is simply the novelty of finding something different in a monotonous sea of drudgery. Forgetting the broken boards, I fish the tin out of the space behind the wall I just ripped out. It`s rusty from the same water that has rotted the wall, but perhaps the inside contents remain unspoiled? And there is something inside. I don`t want to jostle it too much in case it is fragile, but a weight shifts within when I tilt the box to one side.

　　I`ll have to find out another time; the lid has rusted to the box.

　　And Jay should be showing up with his friend any minute now- a friend who might know a thing or two about how to open a rusted shut tin. But then&. I realize that it is a strange impulse, but I want to keep the tin to myself for the time being. Is that selfish of me? I want to see what`s inside first and without anyone telling me what I should do with the contents. The problem with announcing finds like this is people with titles like "historian", "specialist", or "expert" come in with opinions about the discovery and who should be allowed to touch it and if it should be displayed behind glass or if it`s completely worthless. I want to make that judgment call by myself. And I want to be allowed to touch my own discovery, whatever it happens to be. And I realize that this is all very premature, and maybe a little paranoid, but whatever is in the tin, someone went to great lengths to hide it in a weather-resistant box inside a wall in the former servant`s quarters of this old mansion.

　　Instead of hefting a load of rubble down the stairs, I carry the tin down to my dwelling place in the old chapel. It is the only room where the antiques appraiser won`t be looking. I check a window overlooking the driveway, and without a car in sight besides my own, I return to my task of clearing the rubble in the attic bedroom. It`s as I`m dumping the most recent load in the dumpster that a pair of cars roll up, and only then does it occur to me how I must look. Well, I suppose it doesn`t matter. I look this way because I`ve been working, and Jay won`t bat an eye at the wild whites and grays sticking out in odd directions on my head or the smears of sweat matted plaster on my skin.

　　"Lottie! Looks like you`re keeping busy!" Jay`s anticipatedly cheerful voice calls me out the instant his driver`s side door swings open, his youthful face already beaming. "Are you ready for another dumpster?"

　　"I`m hoping that to be the case after we clear out some of the clutter today."

　　"To that point, Lottie, let me introduce you to Esther Larson," he says, indicating a fussy-looking woman who appears to be in her fifties straightening out her shirt after disembarking her own vehicle in the space next to Jay`s car. "Esther, this is Lottie."

　　"A pleasure, Mrs. Evered," and the ring on her left hand currently holding a clipboard informs me that Mrs. Larson is married while her wrinkled nose suggests that this little visit is likely going to be unpleasant for all of us.

　　"Shall we get started then?"

　　"Let`s," the antiques lady says with a level of unnecessary snippety-ness that makes me hope a mouse startles out of a piece of furniture and runs up her pantyhose. That`s not very Christian of me, but I don`t think I really care.

　　"How`ve you been, Lottie?" Jay asks and offers me a friendly side hug around my shoulders- the kind he might offer his own grandmother- as we head back into the house. I accept the gesture briefly.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

　　"It has been a busy two weeks since you were last here. Almost the entire house has been stripped to the studs except the attic, and I haven`t touched the floors or the fireplaces."

　　"Wow! You`ve been busy!" Comes the almost scripted praise. "I`m looking forward to seeing it! Are you still wanting to redo the fireplaces then?"

　　"Only a few of them," I nod. "The fireplace in the main sitting area or living room (I`m still not sure what to call it) needs some help. Quite a few of the bricks are crumbling, and the mantle I think might be beyond repair."

　　"I`ll be the judge of that," Mrs. Sourpuss interjects, and Jay`s generosity spares the antiques appraiser from a biting retort from me.

　　"Esther is the best in the business!" Jay informs me. "She has a certain eye for details that is hard to overvalue in this market, and she has connections to some of the best restoration artists this side of the Mississippi river."

　　I nod, more to be sociable for Jay`s sake than anything else, and lead my guest and his friend into the house. One thing that I will say for Mrs. Larson, she doesn`t waste time. Moving directly to the first mound of furniture, she starts bossing Jay around, ordering him to shift things in the pile and turn certain pieces around so she can better inspect it.

　　"I think this must have been imported. Yes&. The details carved into the wood are Spanish."

　　"Now, Esther, we aren`t here for full appraisals on anything. We just need to know which pieces are worth the effort and money to have restored," Jay reminds her, blessedly because now I don`t have to.

　　"Oh&. Fine!" Mrs. Larson snaps irritably. "That just sucks all the fun out of it."

　　"Let`s make piles, shall we? One side for keeps, one side to toss?" Jay suggests, and his companion nods curtly.

　　"Do you need me for anything?" I ask, hopeful to be excused.

　　"Not unless you have opinions on what things are sentimental to you," Mrs. Larson says. "Otherwise you`ll just be in the way."

　　"Seeing as I don`t care about any of it," I roll my eyes, not even caring that she probably saw it, "excuse me."

　　"When we`re done, at least for today, I`ll let you know, Lottie," Jay grins.

　　It`s not that I`m antisocial. I just don`t like people who make it a point to show off their superiority. The thing is, most everyone comes with a set of strengths, weaknesses, and middle-ish-es. It`s impossible for anyone to have nothing but strengths, but people like Mrs. Larson make it a point to flaunt their strengths as though that were the case for themselves. It props them up to feel superior to other people, though, it is my personal belief that such people harbor their own insecurities and need to feel self-important to better ignore their weaknesses. In this case, primness, properness, and her career-developed talents are the strengths being flaunted, but I`ll tell you this for free, she would probably struggle to swing a sledge hammer.

　　And I have better things to do than stroke a snob`s ego. That rusty tin is calling my name. Rummaging through a box of tools, I locate a coarse-grain sandpaper, a file, and then in the kitchen, I select an old butter knife I don`t care too much about. Fishing the tin box out from under my bed, I start scraping away at the rust. An initial sanding locates the lip of the lid. The file is too wide to be of much use, so I stick with the sandpaper until my butter knife has enough space to start chipping at the rust underneath the lid that`s keeping the same locked in place. The scraping of metal on metal is only slightly less grating of a sound than fingernails on a chalkboard.

　　I don`t know how long I`ve been chipping at rust, but I startle when Jay knocks on my door. "Come in," I call and quickly shove the tin back under my bed, standing up and brushing myself off as the door swings open.

　　"Hey, Lottie."

　　"How is it going with Mrs. Larson?"

　　"Oh, Esther just left," he says. "It`s getting late, and we were both getting hungry. We`re planning on coming again tomorrow morning- start early, hopefully finish before the end of the day. Is that alright with you?"

　　"That`s fine. I have plenty of things to keep me busy while you sort through things."

　　"Let me show you what we`ve gotten through so far. Tomorrow, I`ll help you throw out the piles of rejects, or if there`s not enough time, I could come back on Thursday."

　　"That would be lovely. Thank you." He shows me around, most of the big pieces of furniture remain in the "to restore" piles, the little, cluttery things mostly in the "to toss" piles. That makes things easier for me in the short run.

　　"We finished on the main level and are about halfway done with the second floor. The third floor and attic hasn`t been touched though."

　　"That`s alright. I haven`t finished demolishing the attic yet. I just got to the attic today."

　　"You really are doing amazingly well, Lottie. You`ve gotten so much done with practically no help, and it was a really, really big job to tear out all these walls. I`m super impressed with your stamina."

　　"Because I`m old?" I tease, and Jay chuckles.

　　"It makes it just that much more impressive. But I`ll tell ya, even a younger person would struggle to keep pace with you. You would still be amazing if age wasn`t a factor here at all."

　　"Well, thank you, Jay. I appreciate that."

　　"Welp! Lottie, I`ll see you in the morning round about nine? Does that work for you?"

　　"That`s perfect."

　　"Great! See you then."

　　"See you then."

　　With Jay out the door, I return to the tin box under my bed, feeling like a child sneaking a cookie from the jar mother told me not to touch. I chip away at the rust, the sounds of the house creaking in the gentle evening breeze my only company. The lid starts to have a little give, and I greedily and recklessly work to pry it open without much concern for the integrity of the box. The lid slips and clatters to the floor, my arm, suddenly lacking resistance to my tugging, flings to the side. My prize?

　　I carefully remove three small books.

　　Not books. Diaries. Very old diaries.

　　Inscribed on the inside of each cover: Sarah Rose Atwood.

　　Well, there goes the theory that Raesport was named after Mr. Soward`s mistress.