I am my mother's child.

Lynn Longos

She was a shopper. God knows, I have inherited the unfortunate habit. After all, she dragged me a thousand times on her excursions with one friend or aunt or alone. I was under protest the entire time. I wanted to be doing anything but shop, for heaven's sake. I was 10, or 9 or 12. I would rather be with my friends than at Goldblatt's looking for what's on sale. And she would buy 2 of the same thing. This was before the days of 'buy one get one free!' But one might break, and then you have another.

So here I am, in my new home. I really can't call it home yet. I have not officially accepted it as home. It isn't home until all is put away, and it's organized, cozy and clean. At least that's my version. I think all the boxes have been unpacked. I am missing things, which I won't even talk about because I am so angry at the movers. Why people can't do their job properly...well, why should I even wonder. It's the way of the world now. Why should they treat my things like they are their own? Why should they take an efficient inventory? Why should they make me feel at ease because moving is one of the most stressful things people do. Especially long distance. They did none of that. So in a nutshell, don't use Reebie Moving and Storage, located on Clark St. in Chicago.

And this, this pottery is such a small portion of what I own of pottery. I love vintage pottery, but can't buy anymore. What I have, I can't find a place for. So many things I can't find a place for.

It'll all be OK. Soon, it will be OK.

God forbid I'm doing the dishes and there's an earthquake. That McCoy bean pot comes flying off that shelf, lights out for me and it was nice knowin' ya.

:)

---

View Project: