Investigating a faulty door hinge on our shower, I noticed something new.  A tiny and apparently waterproof flower sticker on the shower’s door frame.

Was I really that unobservant?  Probably.  Has it been there for the entire two months, since we moved into our home?  Probably.  How much else is taking place around me in the shower, while I am completely unaware?  Probably nothing, relax.  Was it placed there by a member of my family?  Highly unlikely, since little flowers do not rank high in terms of décor, after Star Wars, superheroes, and sports.  Hum, it must be a relic of the past.  A forgotten bit of personality imprinted by the former owners or their kids.

This would not be the first time we were left with personality nuggets from former homeowners.  There was our house in Pennsylvania, where the owner’s teenage son, I believe his name was Brent.  Either that or Ted, Charlie, Bronson, or Clay.  Something like that.  Well, he decided it would be clever to write his name on the wall behind the bedroom door in Sharpee.  Knucklehead (I obviously do not keep in touch with Brent).  About five coats of primer later, I still could not cover up his tag.  Ugh.  Thanks, Brent.  In a move of cosmic payback, I always imagined that his voice would sound like that of Hermey the Elf, who wanted to be a dentist, on the Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer television Christmas special.  There, take that, Brent!  Or Rufus or Buster or Whatever-His-Name-Was.  Then there was our house in Kansas, where an owner left behind some old hubcaps in the attic of the garage.  Now, that was just being lazy.  Then there was our last house in western Minnesota, where at one point the kids must have had a fascination with colored plastic beads.  This fascination must have at one point spilled into the backyard.  And I mean they really did spill into the backyard.  They were everywhere.  Even after four years of picking up a few beads each time I mowed the law or racked leaves or picked up after the dog, some still remained.  I believe some hint of them will always remain in that backyard, sort of like the half-life of Uranium (although there was no proof that they were into collecting Uranium).

So what’s the point to all of this?  Well, good question.  I guess it’s this, we can never be sure how we’ll be remembered.  Is it the impression that you were into self-promoting nuisance style Sharpee delivered graffiti?  Is it the impression that you are a lazy dude, who leaves behind stuff and drives around without hubcaps?  Is it the impression that you had a bead obsession that was so large that your house could no longer contain it?  Is it the impression that you liked to shower surrounded by little tiny flower decals?  Whatever it is, be mindful of what you leave behind.  Like the sign in the National Parks reads, “Take only pictures.  Leave only footprints.”  Except, it probably wasn’t wise of me to take a picture with my phone, while standing in the shower (hey, another moral to the story).  Or perhaps the point is this, always be aware of your surroundings, especially when you are most vulnerable (nope, I definitely like the advice about never using the phone, while standing in the shower, better).