I still have my father's original pot of rubber cement. The brush is forever stuck in the remnants of the dried up glue at the bottom. The outside once wrapped in a fresh strip of paper now dripped and smeared and stuck with years of dust, the screw knob to raise or lower the handle immovable. It is on display in the hallway where I use the top of the bookcases to hold special things that I enjoy, walking by several them times a day. My older pair of glasses sits underneath the thermostat should I need to read the dial in the middle of the night. Two orange butterflies cut like snowflakes out of tissue paper keep me from piling the day's mail on the end closest to the front door. The rest of the space is mine.