Broken Glass

I've been unpacking everything that we brought into my home office when we moved into our new house in February. Lots of boxes got put into this giant closet I now have, a closet, it's fair to say, I don't know how to organize. I've never in my life had a closet I could stroll into. I don't know how to handle the responsibility.

Last night I pulled framed things out of boxes and found two casualties.

(1) A framed print of the Stuart Little cover. NBD, except it is one of my most favorite books and I hate to think of harm coming to Stuart. Probably my favorite scene in the book and one that taught me a lot about humor and writing is the one where the house cat meets a friend by the fence and has to admit he is unable to kill Stuart.

It goes something like this:

"You mean to tell me you live with a mouse and there's nothing you can do about it?"
"I know, but that's the situation."

(2) This photo of my mother when she was but a wee lass growing up in Canada.

This photo is from 1935 or so. It used to hang in my grandmother's house and was one of the things I immediately took when my sister and I cleaned out her apartment. Because my mother died when I was little, I don't have nearly enough info about who she was.

I'm looking at these images and thinking. Do these two things basically hold the key to my life story? I mean, is this why I've always loved Mary Jane style shoes and cats who resist murderous impulses?