Yesterday my brother brought me some things.
One of my grandfather's zithers. He studied music through college but it wasn't how he made his living.
Once he told me that during World War II he would go and play to the German prisoners of war that were housed in the Oakland California area.
More of my great-grandmother's filet crochet, a sewing box with needles, thread and scissors. A tin with more supplies.
I am not sure when or from who Grandma Iside learned to crochet. Probably as a child in Italy. It wasn't a story I thought to ask as a teenager. At that time she no longer crocheted as her arthritis was too bad; the prompt to ask wasn't there. She may have taught me to crochet, neither my mom or I remember how I learned.
I am going to connect the squares to make curtains.
A bottle opener and canning jars, the bottle opener certainly from the grocery store my grandparents owned on the Main street of Mendocino for many years.
My mother grew up living above the grocery store and remembers people knocking on their door to open the store if they were out of something they needed. Dad worked at the grocery store for a time as well. My memories of being there during the youngest part of my childhood are vague, more a sense of remembered place.
Sometimes I wonder if my love of our local co-op is rooted in childhood memory? The co-op is certainly bigger than Homer's Market was but...
This is my "why-not" pizza. I strained off the broth from some cabbage and potato soup and used it for a pizza topping.
There is a story there somewhere...