When we cleaned out the chest that we recently sold, we found some of our son's toys. They are more than thirty-five years old. I've washed them and put them out in the sun to dry. "Baby Boy," which our son liked the best, looks as happy as he did years ago. The dog's lashes are still black, and the cat still stares at us with green eyes. I'll see whether the toys appeal to our grandson, who adores trains.
I confess I like to haunt thrift shops. Today I found a hallmarked sterling silver spoon, and a knife made in England with a faux mother-of-pearl handle: twenty-five cents each. This cup with its little gold arcade is my favorite for tea; the plate is decorated with a fine gold outline of a bird. When I rummage, I feel the pleasure of the hunt, and happily part with a few dollars. I never buy anything padded or upholstered: I'm afraid of bedbugs. We now hear a lot about bedbugs. I used to think they only appeared in Russian novels, along with brain fever.