I have a trunk of my grandmothers that means the world to me. I used to see it in her attic when I was visiting as a child. Being in the attic was not a fun thing. I went in for Gram to check the mouse traps. After years of doing this I'm glad I have the trunk. It is full of things of mine, my grandmothers and her mothers. There are pictures of people I don't know. Obituaries, leather work of my dads, broaches, lace handkerchiefs, newspaper clippings, a hairnet or two, and some papers.
I'm not sure why it is that I remember everything in Gram's house but not much from the house I grew up in. Maybe because nothing changed in Gram's house. She sat in the same straight back chair when she talked on the phone. The same items sat on the top of her dresser for years. I remember this picture tree with little circles dangling off the branches that held photos. I dusted the same knick knacks that sat on the same shelf, and used the same pair of Gram's underwear to wash windows with vinegar and water. I will never make my grandchildren wash my windows with my underwear. Now-a-days underwear isn't big enough to do anything with. Even to wear as underwear.