The Blue Box - Part Deux

So, I decided to split my last post into 2 parts - it turned into a longer story than I'd anticipated and also I seem to have less and less free time, as my son keeps getting needier and needier. But that's a whole 'nother story!

Ok, now where was I? Oh, yeah, the part where hubby tells me there's a steering wheel from a 1950's crime scene in the pretty blue box I'd assumed was a gift for me.

Like many of you expressed, I too was like, WTF??

It's a project for his work, he tells me. And he had to take it home. For what reason, I have no idea, because I've stopped listening to him - my mind is still reeling from this bizarre tale. And the fact that the steering wheel of a convicted murderer is sitting in a fancy box on top of my bookshelf is really creeping me out.

Oh, but that's not the worst part of the story, no, it gets worse. As Tony grabs the box from the shelf to open it, he excitedly tells me the blood stains are still on the steering wheel - do I want to see it?

Hell no! I jump back as if the thing itself could attack me - I want nothing to do with that evil object. From the box he takes out a letter outlining some details of the crime, including the murderer's name, which becomes etched in my mind.

It turns out that this evidence has come from a police museum in Calgary where it is kept on display. Tony's company is redesigning the interior of the museum and making special display cases; hence the reason for the steering wheel's mysterious arrival.

I flirt with the idea of looking at it, but when I realize that it's staying in my house overnight (until Tony delivers it to a display vendor the next morning), I change my mind. My nightmares are made of stuff like this. I still get the heebie jeebies thinking about scary movies I've seen years ago. My mind wanders, things get blown out of proportion and suddenly I'm waking up in a cold sweat at three in the morning. Don't even mention the words The Shining to me. Or The Ring. Not even in broad daylight.

But I can't stop thinking about the damn thing in that blue box; I become obsessed with it. So, what do I do? I start researching the case. If this thing's going to be in my house, even just for one night, I need to know who's blood stains are on it. I feel connected to this crime now, I'm emotionally involved.

There's not much information on the Internet, but I manage to dig up a few facts: The murderer was a young married man - boy, really - but old enough to know right from wrong. There was a trial and he was given the death penalty for the rape and murder of a female. He was hung in Alberta in the summer of his twenty-third year.

But what I really want to know about is the woman. How old was she? Did she know her attacker? Was she a someone's wife or mother? Or was she a child herself? Other than her name and being listed as the victim of the crime against her, there's no other information about her. And it makes me sad.

Lately, I've been feeling exhausted and overwhelmed. I'm frustrated that I can't find enough time to blog, exercise, or do tons of other things as much as I'd like to. But I'm grateful that I have this platform to write and share things that make me upset, angry or overjoyed. And I like knowing that one day my son might want to look back and read about them.

I still wonder about that woman sometimes. And maybe it's because I'm a mother, but I imagine she had children. Yes, she had two children, I think. A boy and a girl. She read them bedtime stories and baked them gingerbread cookies and held their hands as she walked them to school. And she kept a diary of her life with them. And after she was gone, their loving, hard-working father gave them the diaries and they knew just how she felt about them. And they never, ever forgot her.