One of my passions in life is purchasing extremely old writing instruments. Most of them don't work. The bladder is dried up and most people look at them as being a piece of trash from a past we can't change. I pay to have them refurbished. To give the tip of that nib another opportunity to speak. To give the body that still holds a finger print or thought from the 1920's up a place to keep reaching. We treat the people in our lives the way we do writing instruments. Once gone. Enough said the party is over. And yet I still remember the odd ball junk my Grandparents in Wyoming endlessly put into my heart. Stuff that has the strength to take the curve out of the road and make the mountain look more like a mirage. My father passed away on May 7, 2015. He's more alive in my present then he was when he was present. His wisdom, wit and ways of protecting the path continue to teach my wandering self. What if I challenged you to purchase an old writing instrument? To hold it. To write with it. To put it away for future days of thought. Your heart will open in ways that will reconnect your steps toward those that were here before you. You aren't the first. You never were. You are part of the continuation. If forgetting your past is the deal. I can't imagine what those beyond you will be speaking. Ouch! Same goes for business owners that brag of being family owned and operated for ten billion chapters. But are you still true to the original seed? Not when the doors opened but the multiple years before it.