We are nobody without a story.
Ask the panhandler I passed this morning. He held a sign that said: “Iraqi Vet. Clean. Sober. Going home. Need bus fare.” He’d staged his story with a Santa hat and a backpack.
Also applies to things.
Often the only difference between an antique and a piece of junk is “provenance,” a fancy word for the same information the panhandler had on his sign—a story, a history. Besides hoping I’d open my wallet, I suspect the panhandler was making sure I didn’t mistake him for junk. He wanted me to believe that he’d fought and struggled and lived to tell the tale. Now he was going home, if I could spare a little change.
I wasn’t buying his story, but it did make me wonder what five lines I would put on a piece of cardboard if I wanted someone to help me go home?
I’m not going to make it this year. Won’t miss the food. Will miss the stories.