The year was 1972. I was eighteen years old. I was about to be married, so I was given a household shower.
Good thing, too. An eighteen year old ain't got much to speak of in the way of household items; unless one begs, borrows or steals from their family of origin.
And frankly, my family didn't have much to take.
Anyway, I got lots of nice things, sometimes the same thing two or three times.
I did get lots of pretty sheets and towels.
Today, When I got the towels out of the dryer, I retired the very last of those towels to the ragbag.
Yep. Forty-four years ago. That's a lot of drying off people.
When Husband called it a rag the other day, I figured it was time to say good-bye. (To the towel, not Husband)
I noticed how much smaller it was than our bath towels purchased in more recent years. It had also become very thin and had a hole beginning in the middle of it.
Am I embarrassed that I let a towel get in that kind of shape and still use it?
Nah. I get emotionally attached to the oddest things. I reckon I was a little attached to the last of the young bride's gifts.
Sorta brings a tear to your eye, doesn't it?
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