A small thing, really.

Grandma can't take all her stuff to her new home, there just isn't room. Dividing the furniture was easy. Her other things are not so easy to divide. Everything is getting boxed up and sent to grandma in small batches, so she can keep what she wants. Whatever she doesn't want, or can't use anymore; goes into my sister's basement. The hope is that we can get everyone together and they can take what is precious to them. Anything left can go to charity. (I have offered to sell the stuff no one wants on e-bay, and we could put the money in grandma's savings account -or donate it to any charity she wants. No one can decide what's the right thing to do.)

I don't want grandma's money. I don't want her car-length seal fur coat (shudder). All I ever wanted was Great Grandma's battered old Queen Anne card table, and a set of canasta cards. Really.
Of all the wonderful things my grandma has kept over the years, all I wanted was that table. It's heartbreaking to pack her things in boxes; knowing that they're about to be separated for good. Knowing that I may never see or touch them again. Things like grandpa's tailor shears (massive steel scissors that are still sharp enough to draw blood from the careless), postcards from Sicily, letters that weren't sent for one reason or another, and a Bakelite vanity set that grandma had used as a teenager. Any of these items are precious to me. When I touch them, I touch my ancestors. The essence of who they are remains, and I can feel it.

I will miss those things (until I forget about them); but in a way, I can still touch them all because I have great grandma's card table. It reflects the touch of every hand that polished it; every person who played cards on it. I thought the table was the most priceless thing I could own, and it is. But it's not the thing that makes me the happiest. I'm holding the happy thing in my hand right now. And I'm smiling.

It's a cookbook. A simple little cookbook. A cookbook that I've been searching for in every used bookstore and charity book sale that I've come across. One that I thought of as so collectible, I'd never be able to afford it even if I could find it... and it was sitting on grandma's microwave cart all along. Unbelievable!
I am now the proud owner of the 1943 edition of "The Joy Of Cooking" by Irma S. Rombauer.
This book tells me how to make food from scratch. It's so old that canned soups are a fairly new thing! And the 1943 edition includes sugarless and sugar-saving recipies and ways to stretch meat (or cook without it) during war time.
I'm happier than a feline on a catnip farm!