I’ve been really busy and stressed at work lately, but in spite of that the shoebox and its contents are never far from my thoughts. You might say that I’m getting a bit obsessed about them. I’ve been trying to find out who the poet is, or the couple in the photos, but no luck. I asked the daughter of the previous owner about it (her mother is in a nursing home and suffers from advanced Alzheimer’s disease, so she wouldn’t be able to help me). She was certain that no one in her family was a poet, and she doubted that the people in the photos were anyone from her family. She told me that her mom liked to buy stuff from yard sales, and her guess was that the shoebox was something her mom had picked up from one of those.
A couple of guys came to do some plumbing work on Friday. They had to get under the house to do that, and I discovered that there was a trapdoor that led to the crawl space underneath. It had been screwed shut, and had to be opened. After they were done, I decided to go down there to explore. Armed with a flashlight and my iPhone for shots, I squeezed myself through the trapdoor. It was cramped and claustrophobic (I’m amazed that the workmen were able to do any work there, I’m tiny compared to them). I was mentally prepared for rats and dead cats or even something worse, but there was nothing out of the ordinary down there. Nothing out of the ordinary in the town of Ordinary (pun intended). Here are the photos: