“Hands off the vintage clothing,” Linnea called out. “I call dibs. Except for that,” she conceded to Pandora. “I don’t wear fur. Leave the hats too!” She pointed at Pandora, who was trying on a lovely shaped black felt hat with a veil. Pandora stuck her tongue out playfully and tossed the hat at Linnea.

En masse they all began rooting through the items, each finding something he or she wanted.

“Will you look at all you’ve done!” Emmi exclaimed as she approached. Her red hair was bound up in a bun and she wore a sparkly T-shirt under a jean jacket. “I came to ask if y’all were hungry. I made up a big pot of spaghetti. Now I’m all aflutter.” She put her hands on her hips. “Kids, you’ve done wonders,” she exclaimed, walking into the barn and gaping joyfully. “I can see the murals! I haven’t seen them since Miranda was alive. She used to paint her big oils in here. What days those were. Cara and I played dress-up in all those clothes.” She grew teary-eyed and sniffed. “I don’t know how to thank you. I’ve wanted to get that firetrap cleaned out for ten years.”

“You have wonderful treasures,” Pandora said, lifting up a painting of an egret.

“Miranda painted that,” Emmi said, stepping into the barn. “It’s yours if you like it.” She turned to address everyone. “All of you, if you find something you like, take it as my thank-you.” She put her hands together. “Except, perhaps, the really good antiques. And any silver, of course. And anything else of great value,” she added in a lower voice.

“Mom, where did the joggling board come from?” John asked. He walked over to the sixteen-foot narrow plank set between what looked like two rocking sawhorses. It was painted a glossy color called Charleston green, more black than green, faded only a bit by the years.

Emmi came closer to investigate. “This brings back memories,” she said wistfully, and reached out to touch the long dark slab of wood. “This was Miranda’s. It’s been here for as long as I can remember. Flo said she inherited it from the family that built the house. John,” she said, her face softening with the memory, “I used to hold you and bounce you up and down on this thing. It was one of the only things that would stop you from crying.”

“I’m sorry,” Pandora interrupted, “but what is it?” She spread out her hands.

“Legend goes,” explained Emmi, “joggling boards started in South Carolina, back in the eighteen hundreds. If I recall correctly, some plantation owner’s sister came to visit, and she had bad rheumatism. Their Scottish cousins sent a model of a joggling board and suggested she build one. They claimed that the gentle bouncing would help. So she did. The idea took off, and local carpenters have been making them ever since. They used to be called courting benches.” She moved to one side of the board, swiped off a thick layer of dust, and sat down. She bounced up and down a bit. “See? Joggle.”