My parents were both in their seventies now.
Dad, Arthur, had retired from teaching.
Mom, Eleanor, had spent most of her career as a librarian.
They were practical people.
Careful with money.
Not sentimental about possessions.
And deeply committed to the belief that if something still worked, there was no reason to replace it.
Unfortunately, their definition of “still worked” was extremely generous.
The mattress in the country house had been there for thirty-one years.
It sagged so deeply in the middle that both sides had permanent hollows.
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