A mysterious box was left at my house this week. My father had told me he had something for me that had belonged to my great-grandmother, Grace. We lived in her house for a time shortly after she passed away. Her house was like a time capsule–filled with so many common (and uncommon) things from her 96 year life collected and never tossed away–I always cherish anything with a link to her. Imagine my surprise at finding that the box contained a Charlie McCarthy ventriloquist doll complete with changes of clothing and a crumpled pile of railroad bonds. I have a vague memory of Charlie McCarthy and Mr. Bergen and their quippy one liners, their long career woven into the fabric of popular culture for people of a certain age. I…