It just occurred to me that this is the first time in my adult life--I'm not kidding--where I've had all my stuff in one space. I can count 21 houses in 21 years. Obviously all my things didn't travel with me all that time. Books, manuscripts, clothes, more books: many things held in basements, attics, storage units, the other house of the moment. Mostly unreachable. It's strange to take in just how much one accumulates over time. Stranger, though, to realize that living that way allowed us to pretend we were traveling more lightly than we were. There was still time to make ourselves up; at least that's what I thought for years.
As for all these books? Tiresome to say it, but a Kindle is seeming more appealing by the minute.
Some things that have managed to squeak through time:
Dishtowel from childhood summer house:
Spooky dish of mine:
Florida report mentioned in previous post:
(Shockingly, it's practically intact after--forty years? No staining or spotting, no disintegration of paper stock. Clearly things were made to last back then, not like now when even the ink on the receipts we save is sometimes gone within the month. And now I'm sounding like some old pappy from a Del Webb community.)