foundling

I can't be sure how it all started. Maybe it was the summers spent rifling through my grandmother's attic, or the piles of floral bedsheets in my mother's linen closet, begging to be cut apart and made into something new. That, or my father's habit of finding clever uses for things otherwise meant for the trash. Something from my past stirred up a fondness for rescuing old things and prompted an avocation. . . . continue reading profile

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