Of history and rolling pins

Sunday, my husband's grandmother gave me a rolling pin. A solid piece of wood, turned by my husband's grandfather on a lathe. It is nicked and smooth with wear, and feels right somehow to the touch. A tangible piece of our family's history. Forget the characterless pin I formerly used. It had no meaning, conjured up no emotion, evoked no past. This pin however, recalls childhood memories... the scent of sawdust, and the dim light of the workshop in which I know he lathed it. It provokes thoughts of how many crusts it's nicked surface has smoothed, and of how many many more it will roll yet.