We Don't Know What Belongs To Us Until Someone Else Claims It.

Still someone who quivers at the very thought of bringing a pen down to the page of a book, I did it today anyway. It was red, very inky, and I almost kissed the soft paper I was ruining when I was finished with my underlining and commenting.

This couldn't wait though, this idea. It was a mysterious and vague connection that I seemed to have made. Somehow.

Shining at different moments in the Thanksgiving dinner, everyone has a time to say something or do something with the family. My youngest sister, Minna said we should all go around the table saying what we're thankful for.

Her time.

My sister, Lois was our waitress, insisting on bringing out and serving to everyone.

Her time.

I, the perfectionist set the table for dessert just right, scooping the sorbet, cut the pies, and led the annual game of "The Forehead Game."

My time.

Everyone, not just my sisters and I had at least one time to share something.

Came my grandfather, who has been playing the balalaika for 15 years shared his story. His beautiful instrument was bought in a store, 9 years ago. Just a few weeks ago he took it into a repair shop to get a part of it fixed. After arriving at the store and bringing it to the counter, he is prepared to leave, no problem.

Up until the owner of the store stops my grandpa and says to him that he knows this balalaika, he's seen it before. He knows the original owner, who had it stolen from his car 10 years ago. My grandfather says that he did not steal this balalaika, he bought it in a store 9 years ago- end of story.

This is his balalaika, right? He has had it for 9 years, he has played it, loved it, called it his. It belongs to him.

He says he is sorry, but there's nothing he can do, it is his. It belongs to him.

**

Page 30, I move slowly and surely through Great House. Taking in every little detail as I go along.

What I underlined today reminded me much of what I heard heard from my grandpa about his experience with the balalaika.

Page 17
The phone rings.
The daughter of her friend who left years ago's voice fills the other end of the phone.
A question.
Do you still have my father's desk.
?

Yes.

She still has the desk. Just like the 9 years my grandpa owned the instrument, she has written 7 novels.

7 Novels.
9 Years.

So does this mean that she has the desk.
Or.
So does this mean that she owns the desk.

I can only imagine how many years it takes to write 7 books.
I can clearly see how long 9 years is.

Surely, with this of a connection. With this much of a bond, and a relationship with this one desk. This one hunk of wood. This nothing that turned into a something, turned into something I consider she owns.

In Great House it is clearly stated that she has every right to claim the desk her own.

Which makes me wonder what it takes for you to be able to call something your own. It makes me ask myself, in Great House this woman who has written 7 novels at this desk, the fact that she has is what makes it hers. But I never got to ask my grandfather what he did with his balalaika that gave the two of them such a strong argument.

If the character in Great House had someone ask her what made this desk so special, what made her feel like she owned it, she would be able to say that she wrote many, many books at it.

There you go, straight answer.

But is just saying that you're reaching your tenth year with an instrument enough? I think about what my grandfather would say in response to the question, and I think about what things were handed down to me that I now consider mine and when and why and what made it turn into something that is mine from something that was not.