The Story: The Oil Can
When I first picked it up, I felt its weight before I saw it clearly. Heavy. Dented. One of those pieces that’s worked hard for someone, long before it ever ended up with me. I wasn’t sure what it was, an old oil can, maybe a watering can, but something about it felt alive. The man selling it didn’t know much. Said it had just been lying around.
The Story: The Steel Pipe
One day I was walking and came across a small pile of forgotten hardware. Among the pieces was this steel pipe: heavy, cold, and ordinary to anyone else. The man who sold it to me didn’t know its story, only that it had been sitting around for years. But something in me paused. Something about it felt alive, as though it had more to give.
The Story: Flowers and Steel
This vessel came from a friend after church one Sunday, handed to me with a smile and a simple, “I know you’ll make something beautiful out of this.” He wouldn’t accept payment. It was a dark blue toolbox, rusted and worn, the kind of object that has already lived a good, honest life.
The Story: The Blue Toolbox
Toolboxes are sturdy things. They hold what we might not need all at once but what we reach for when something breaks, needs repairing, or longs to be made new. They carry preparation and hope in the same space. This one, with its weathered edges and chipped blue paint, felt different when I found it, like it had already carried a story.
The Story: Burnt Candles
It was a small white colander, painted with strawberries and curling green leaves, the kind of vessel that carries more time than weight. The woman who gave it to me said it was vintage, that she’d had it for years. I could tell it mattered by the way she held it before letting go, as if handing over a chapter of her life.
The Story: Full Cup
This candle jar was a Christmas gift to my daughter. Our family loved the way it smelled so much that we set it in the kitchen, letting its fragrance fill the air while we went about our daily lives. Its beveled glass, softly gleaming in the light, gave it a vintage feel, a small, steady brightness in the hum of everyday life.
The Story: Security Blankets
This weathered lantern came from a young woman’s home in Oklahoma City. She had tried to repaint it, but time was winning. The edges flaked, the paint peeled, the years quietly revealing what was underneath. When I first saw it, I thought of a bird cage, something meant to hold light or life, both protected and enclosed.
The Story: Lucy
When Lucille was alive, she kept plants everywhere: windowsills, tabletops, the edges of her porch. She rarely bought them. Most were cuttings from neighbors or friends, small gifts of green that she would coax into new life. To her, propagation wasn’t just a hobby; it was a way of living shaped by the times she came from.
The Story: The Water Jug
It’s heavy in a way that only old things are: dented, worn smooth from years of being held. The woman who handed it to me smiled, her voice warm with memory.
The Story: The Black Suitcase
It sat beneath a folding table at the back of a garage, nearly hidden behind a pile of forgotten tools and Christmas lights. Its corners were scuffed, hinges rusted, handle cracked—but there was something about it that stopped me. When I asked the woman its story, her face softened.