The box reads Hellmen’s Shoes—a shop I drove by on Main Street the other day. No surprise that Minnie shopped local. The boots are nice, barely worn. On a whim, I slip one on. Pretty good fit, which is surprising, seeing as how Minnie was a half a foot taller than me, if Mom told it right.

Guess I have big feet.

I set the box to the side of the room I designate as the Keep side. The next box in the stack is bigger and contains some worn flannel shirts and thick knit cardigans. Weirdly, my grandmother’s frumpy mountain woman clothes are exactly what’s in style. Despite them being a few sizes larger than my normal, I place the box next to the boots.

Last box in the first stack has ratty, old sheets, which make for good drop cloths.

I keep them too.

“Maybe I’m not so good at this clear-out-the-house business,” I mutter to myself while reaching for the next container.

This one is different, a wooden box about the size of a toaster oven. It sits on the top of a middle stack, easily accessible.

Curiosity piqued and worries set at ease after dealing with relatively impersonal materials so far, I place the wooden box on the floor and plop down in front of it. There’s a brass latch, but no lock, so I don’t expect any kind of valuables when I open the lid.

Still, the contents surprise me.

Cassette tapes. Neatly arranged in rows, as if this box was built for the exact purpose of housing them. I count them, coming up with just over forty.

Carefully, I slide one from the box and pop open its little plastic case. The old tech makes me smile. I’m just the right age to have used cassette tapes for a handful of years before CDs took over. The Walkman I used to have was one of my first prized possessions. I played my *NSYNC tape so often that the ribbon broke.

The curious thing about Minnie’s collection is that every tape is blank. Not blank of recording. They probably have some type of audio on them. What they’re all missing is labeling. The spines of the containers have blank white space, where someone could make a note of the contents of the tapes. But every one is void of any title or description.

I should put the box to the side and return to the closet. But I’m a cat, ready to die for the sake of curiosity.

I go on a hunt.

What I’m looking for isn’t in the bedroom, so I move to the main living area. Finally, after opening almost every closet and cupboard, I spot it sitting on top of the refrigerator.

A boom box.

The thing might be in easy reach for a woman approaching six feet tall, but I have to pull out the step stool.