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Every­body laughed. Everyone snick­ered at the Depres­sion Era Grandaddy with his euphemistic “Archives”:

His jam jars of nails and screws and nuts and bolts and cotter pins and washers and tacks, bits and bobs, spare or often uniden­ti­fi­able parts, stock­pile of lumber and finishes;

The can­ning cup­boards with dried goods, the 10 gallon bins of flour and sugar and rice, the root cellar and deep freezer;

The file stuffed with envelopes of saved seeds, the bins of lime, bone meal, blood meal, fish meal, ver­mi­culite, diatoma­ceous earth, the com­post heap;

The self-sufficientist’s “trade sec­tored” shops, — paper work, clay, paint, printing, book repair, sewing and tex­tiles, elec­tronic parts and repair;

“The” Shop with a full com­ple­ment of both wood and metal working hand tools, as well as com­pact, effi­cient power tools, hand held and stationary;

The enor­mous linen press chock full of infi­nitely reusable nap­kins and hand towels; the 30 gallon antique Ivory soap drum of cotton rags…

Every­body rolled their eyes, they spent their hours reading Marie Kondo and fan­ta­sizing about a non-phys­ical world in which the only thing one needed to thrive was a debit card or Apple Pay.

Grandaddy Depres­sion Man is the one laughing now.

Yinz need some­thing, let me know, it’s bound to be some­where in the “Archives.” I come from the land of junk pile front yards. I gotchu, silly urbanites.