Every now and again, usually while rummaging about trying to remember what I am looking for, I stumble upon a relic of my past. Most often I wonder that I choose to keep such a thing, but after a pensive moment or two refreshing old and treasured memories, I always return it to its accustomed place---until the next time.This hand-painted glass Easter Egg is a prime example of my pack-rat nature. It is as least as old as I am. I was born in St. Louis in November, 1941. To commemorate my second Easter I was given this fragile glass egg by two elderly ladies who lived in an apartment adjacent to our house. Back then they were probably called Old Maids. I have dim memories of my mom taking me out in our small yard where at times we would encounter one or both of these neatly attired women across a shared fence. Their names were Pearl and Jeanetta--it is astounding to me that such trivial things as their names remain firmly ensconced in the remote folds of my brain after all this time---and I can't remember why I came in this room.I am approaching my 79th birthday, so I know Pearl and Jeanetta have long left this earth, but I hope they know an old man still remembers. 