There is a small bag that sits beside my desk; I call it my love bag. It is the first thing I would grab if the house were on fire or if I had to leave suddenly. It holds mostly papers — cards from family members, all of my newspaper interviews, a drawing from my oldest niece. But there are other things too — a military dog tag, my mom’s journal, a bracelet that belonged to my Mammaw, a small wooden animal my dad made when I was a baby. Below the bag sits a box that contains almost every photo I own. It is the second thing I would grab ( I realize there is a safer and more efficient way to store these, but I like that they are so accessible, which for safety purposes, is probably counterintuitive.) There are other belongings I’d certainly be disappointed about if I never saw them again, but those two contain the treasures I don’t want to live without.
The Memory Collectors
The Memory Collectors
The Memory Collectors
There is a small bag that sits beside my desk; I call it my love bag. It is the first thing I would grab if the house were on fire or if I had to leave suddenly. It holds mostly papers — cards from family members, all of my newspaper interviews, a drawing from my oldest niece. But there are other things too — a military dog tag, my mom’s journal, a bracelet that belonged to my Mammaw, a small wooden animal my dad made when I was a baby. Below the bag sits a box that contains almost every photo I own. It is the second thing I would grab ( I realize there is a safer and more efficient way to store these, but I like that they are so accessible, which for safety purposes, is probably counterintuitive.) There are other belongings I’d certainly be disappointed about if I never saw them again, but those two contain the treasures I don’t want to live without.