On Being a Pack Rat
My paternal grandmother, Ruth, was a pack rat. At least, that’s what my mom would tell me with a note of defeat when she implored me to clean my room every day.
It’s true. Gramma’s where I got it.
Going to her place was an archeological expedition. There was always treasure:
Books from the 1800s, leather-bound and dusty; mid-centu…
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to SBJournal to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.