When I emptied Mom’s house seven years ago I found a little bowl of acorns. I’m not sure where she got them since they aren’t something one would collect anywhere on the ground near her home.
Perhaps she collected them on her trip to Quebec all those years ago? I just don’t know.
But, like Mom, I have an affinity for containers of odd things scattered about the house. A dish of old skeleton keys here, a jar of Arapaima scales there, and an old Depression glass sugar bowl of acorns….
It’s her fault, really.
But the do make me think of her and smile every day when I walk downstairs and pass them on the way.
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