There was a little wooden stool in the hall bathroom at my grandparent's house. It sat right under the sink. It was the perfect size to climb up on to reach the dual spigot sink and wash off the dirt from helping in Mamaw's garden or the sticky raspberry juice after our snack with Grandpa.
My beloved stool was also easily carried out to the back bedroom where Mamaw kept a tin of fake bugs, a box of colored wood blocks, and some of my favorite books. The wooden stool flipped up to transform into a seat just the right size and I would sit contentedly getting lost in "Harry By The Sea" and "Come Over to My House".
The little wooden stool my Mamaw acquired from collecting stamps and redeeming them at Sears, had been used by my Dad as a boy. I am sure he never imagined his daughter sitting in it one day. And as a dirt and raspberry covered little girl, I never picture my own little boy using that stool in the same way.
But here I am, watching those beloved chubby bare feet on the stool to aid his reach to the faucet, cleaning his own dirty, sticky fingers. I see his excitement to run get the stool and flip it into a chair as he settles in with his own literary classics of "The Little Train that Could", and "Virginia". I love that the little wooden seat has held three generations of curiosity, helpfulness, and wild imaginations. This is one seat that has always, lovingly, been taken.
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