Forget doorbells and sleighbells and schnitzel with noodles.  These are a few of my favourite (tangible) things:

– my oversized coffee cup  from New York – short and wide and never tips over
– my duvet, and my bed in general
– my ridiculously beautiful calico cat
– my weird little palm tree that is older than both of my kids
– my kitchen table – an old farm table with drop leaves that I refinished myself and serves as the backdrop for most of my knitting photographs
– my kangaroo hat
– my old wooden ironing board
– my leather couch with the nailhead trim
– my great-grandmother’s mirror
– my Fisher-Price lunchbox shaped like a barn that Uncle Bobby sent me (yes, THE Uncle Bobby)
– my grandmother’s locket with a picture of my dad as a baby
– my mum’s Anne of Green Gables books

I don’t know why I’m so attached to stuff.  Well, actually, reviewing that list, I do.  I like comfortable stuff, I like nostalgic stuff, I like stuff that reminds me of people.  I like “olden days” stuff.  Could I live without my stuff?  Sure.  But I don’t have to, and that’s cool.  I don’t like TV shows in which people are coerced into getting rid of all their stuff, or their entire wardrobes, after which their homes/selves are homogenized into complete inoffensive, clutter-free blandness.

One of the nicest compliments I ever got was from a co-op student we had once, who dropped by the house for some reason which I now don’t remember.  “Oh,” she said.  “Your house looks just like you.”


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