I remember exploring my grandparents’ basement when I was a child. There were hundreds of dusty old honey jars and milk jars, filled with nails, screws, washers, nuts and bolts. Everything was saved; nothing was disposable.
It was as if they hadn’t thrown away anything for decades.
My grandparents were immigrants, my grandmother a refugee, and they suffered through the Great Depression. They knew hardship and desperation I never have in my privileged life.
The memory returns each morning, and the question: what did they know?