A hundred years ago, there was a legendary “tie yourself down” stretch of railroad along Beaver Canyon, one of the places my great grandmother, Sophia, worked as a cook for the railroad crews laying track. The road was so rough, several men were stationed there with the sole purpose of cleaning up the box cars that weren’t tied down and therefore tipped over and smashed on the rocks below. “Tie yourself down,” meaning prepare for...

We are nobody without a story.  Ask the panhandler I passed this morning. He held a sign that said: “Iraqi Vet. Clean. Sober. Going home. Need bus fare.” He’d staged his story with a Santa hat and a backpack.   Also applies to things.  Often the only difference between an antique and a piece of junk is “provenance,” a fancy word for the same information the panhandler had on his sign—a story, a history. Besides hoping I’d...