12When I woke up Sunday morning, Mom was in her bedroom, searching through a box of old videos – believe it or not, she still had a VHS player.
“Are you going to do a documentary on the monk?” I asked, hopefully.
“Not until I finish editing all these Missouri trips,” she said. “If it’s not good enough for a documentary, it will at least be something to add to your treasure chest.”
Treasure chest. Sounded exciting. I remembered Great-Grandma Z’s trunk with her own mother’s belongings in it. When I was little and we visited the farm, I would go fishing with Grandma Z.
“Can we stop at the Old House?” I’d say, on the way to the pond. It was the house that Grandma grew up in that had been abandoned.
“Nah, the floors are so rotten we might fall through,” she’d say. But I finally nagged her
