Since I can first remember I have spent much of my time digging.


Digging through my mom’s dusty 1950’s hat boxes full of costume jewelry, gloves and delicate watches that have long stopped ticking.


Digging through my grandmother’s basement marveling at her classic suites and hats tucked behind wooden closet doors, smelling of  moth balls, wool, mohair. Digging.


Hair pins and hat pins. Digging.


Cotton and linen and lace. Digging.


Market stands and stalls, second hand shops, and charity outlets. Always digging.


Dumpsters? Sure.


Starting out in the backyard with old bottles and china shards, fossils and rocks, signs of life from another time, another planet.


Because it was another planet.


Because I wanted to go there and see it.


And sometimes I still do.