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To Finley, verb

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Somehow I was lucky enough to inherit my Grandmom's heirloom hutch that now sits in the entryway at The Treehouse. I had always loved this thing because it reminded me of the reckless wildness of my Grandpa Finley-- the one who haphazardly sawed it in half in order to get it up the stairs of an old apartment building when he and my Grandmom were living in New York. You can still see the rugged cut along the side, and I like to picture him taking a hand saw to it ravenously on a busy street at high noon. My family has coined the endearing verb "to Finley something" when we take to shoving/forcing/breaking something due to impatience and/or a desire to get on with life and stop being so type-A about everything. I have taken to Finley-ing Things quite naturally, and this old hutch is a constant reminder that genes are powerful things. Also, anyone who has helped me move in the last 5 years knows how big and heavy this thing is, so I don't quite blame him at all for Finley-ing it during what I imagine was a blurred-vision fugue state outside the apartment when he realized it just wouldn't fit around the tiny corners of the stairwell. 

One thing my Grandmom taught me about having a wildly spectacular life was that it's fun to have things you love that are “special & yours”– for her: blue & white china, walnut ice cream, tiny sandwiches, painting, blue flowers...

For me, it's mint chocolate, bike riding, pancakes, fireworks, fresh OJ, baseball games, shirley temples, Sufjan Stevens, new stationery, red velvet cake, and ranunculus flowers. 

Missing them today. 

morgan cogswell