When I arrived to pick her up, the guy had graciously loaded four cases of old mason jars in varying sizes. These also were packed away into the overstuffed barn. Since I told him we had property in the country, he assumed we were probably the type to make preserves, to pickle, to be your all-round country folks, so he tossed in the lot of jars for free. Good man.
I promptly washed them all and fixed myself a stiff summer drink in the only mason jar that came with a handle. They double as lovely glasses, tupperware, etc. To me, the sight of mason jars is as comforting as chickens in the backyard. The world can change around you but some things were made so right the first time that they're not worth changing. Chickens scratching, pickles pickling, gardens growing. Simple stuff like this gets lost in the jumble of greedy dreams to build big houses on hills in the country. The key is remembering why you want to be out on that hill in the first place. Doesn't have anything to do with the damn house.