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Things have stories, memories attached, bits of, scraps of, little pieces of our life. Of ancestors, voices from our past whisper, happy or sad, I love things that have a rich provenance. I suppose it grounds me, tea towel in the wind I once could be, or so mom always said.

Guess we are copacetic… small and snarlly when touched (well, in ways we find displeasing… which is most ways), but generally a pleasant companion.