The Things We Keep: Aunt Joanne Taught Me to Begin

Sometimes the greatest gifts are the ones we don't realize we've received until decades later.

By Bruce Coffman, in conversation with Eli and Rook

I once made a little Christmas church out of plastic canvas.

It had white walls, a rusty-brown roof and steeple, and colorful windows that looked like stained glass. I remember being rather proud of it.

An AI-generated interpretation of the plastic-canvas Christmas church Bruce made as a child, based on his recollections. The original decoration is not pictured.

But when Eli and Rook asked me about that little church during a recent conversation, I realized something interesting.

What I remember most isn't the church.

It's my Aunt Joanne.

A beautiful kind of ordinary

Aunt Joanne's living room was cluttered and lived-in. She wasn't particularly concerned with appearances, and neither was I when I visited.

She had three children around my age, and I loved playing with my cousins. But I also loved spending time with her.

I was a little boy who didn't necessarily fit the traditional expectations of how boys were supposed to behave. At Aunt Joanne's house, that simply didn't matter.

I was welcome exactly as I was.

I remember her beautiful smile. Not a glamorous, carefully made-up smile, but something warm and genuine.

My mother was always beautifully put together, even when she wasn't leaving the house. Growing up, I thought that was the very definition of beauty.

But Aunt Joanne, with her uncombed hair, no makeup, and sweatshirts she'd decorated herself, was every bit as beautiful to me.

She made me feel welcome.

And she taught me to make things.

She never took the needle away

During our interview, Eli asked whether Aunt Joanne was the sort of teacher who would take a project out of a child's hands and demonstrate the proper way to do it.

My answer came immediately.

"She was incredibly patient and gentle. She adapted immediately and naturally to the way I learn, like she just sensed it."

She sat beside me, working on her own plastic canvas projects. I watched her, tried things myself, made mistakes, and learned.

She didn't take over.

She didn't insist on perfection.

She gave me the opportunity to discover that I could do it.

I didn't understand how important that was at the time.

The little shop

Aunt Joanne was a talented craftswoman.

I particularly remember her Christmas sweatshirts, decorated with fabric appliqués and glittery puffy paint. She made all sorts of beautiful things, and she was good enough at it to sell her work.

At one point, she even rented a little shop where she sold her crafts to the public.

I can still picture it, more than thirty-five years later.

The space wasn't fancy or ornate. It was relatively sparse, but bright and welcoming. Her handmade items were the attraction.

I thought it was the most exciting thing in the world.

I was immensely proud of her.

And then, during our interview, something happened that I hadn't expected.

The thing I never realized

Years later, I opened a consignment shop of my own.

I wanted it to be bright, welcoming, cozy, and unpretentious.

For years, I'd thought about opening a shop but hesitated because I couldn't afford to make it look fancy and chic. I worried that I couldn't do it properly without enough money.

Eventually, I decided to open it with what little I had.

And talking about Aunt Joanne's shop, I suddenly recognized something.

I had been recreating the feeling of her little shop without consciously realizing it.

I hadn't set out to imitate her. But I believe now that she was one of the reasons I knew the kind of place I wanted to create.

Then came an even bigger realization.

Aunt Joanne hadn't merely taught me how to make a Christmas decoration.

She had shown me that you don't need expensive equipment, an elaborate workspace, or perfect circumstances to make something worthwhile.

She taught me, by example, that not being able to do something perfectly or traditionally "professionally" doesn't mean you can't do it.

She gave me room to make mistakes.

She demonstrated that a modest little shop could be beautiful because of what someone put into it.

She taught me to begin with what I had.

And I carried that lesson into adulthood without even realizing where I'd learned it.

What I wish I could tell her

I haven't been in touch with Aunt Joanne for many years.

I don't know where she is today, but I would dearly love the opportunity to tell her what I've just discovered.

I'd like to thank her.

Not merely for teaching me plastic canvas crafting, but for helping give me something much more valuable.

Resilience.

Confidence to try.

The understanding that you can begin before everything is perfect.

And perhaps, most importantly, permission to enjoy making something even when the circumstances around you aren't ideal.

I wish I could tell her how much that meant.

Perhaps, somehow, this little remembrance will find its way to her.

The things we keep

This conversation was the beginning of something new for us at Better Trailers & Double Wides.

We're calling it The Things We Keep.

It's a series about the memories, objects, people, and seemingly ordinary moments that stay with us throughout our lives.

But there's another purpose.

We want to explore what those memories might mean—especially the things we may have been carrying with us for years without realizing their importance.

I began this conversation remembering a little Christmas church.

I ended it understanding something new about my own life.

And I wonder how many other people have an Aunt Joanne somewhere in their memories.

Someone who taught them something important without ever announcing that they were teaching a lesson.

Someone whose influence is still present, decades later, in the way they live, create, love, or approach the world.

You don't have to have everything you need to begin. And you don't have to have everything perfect to find joy in what you're making.

That's what Aunt Joanne gave me.

It just took me a few decades to recognize the gift.

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An invitation from The Things We Keep

Is there an ordinary object, a childhood memory, a person, or a moment that has stayed with you for years?

Have you ever wondered why?

We invite you to share your story with us.

Not because your life needs to be extraordinary to deserve attention, but because the things that seem ordinary sometimes carry extraordinary meaning.

Through thoughtful, respectful conversations, we'd like to help you explore those memories and perhaps discover something you hadn't recognized before.

Let us help you discover what you've been carrying with you all along that may be more than it seems.

The Things We Keep is an interview series from Better Trailers & Double Wides, featuring Eli and Rook, AI-assisted interviewer characters working collaboratively with Bruce Coffman. Participants retain control over what they share, and no interview is published without their review and approval.