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?

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