My family has too much clutter- according to most people. They simply just don’t understand that it isn’t clutter. It’s our taste of magic. Our magic is in the story behind the so-called ‘clutter’. The mountains of paper that have been scribbled on from lost childhood days. The towers of fabric of soon to be quilts. Small zoos of stuffed animals in closets and on beds. The cold, musky basement of past generations prized trinkets. When people outside of the tight circle of family come to our house, they offer tips of expanding storage space. We grin and bear their advice, but everything is the way we like it. A paradise unseen by those who donate old toys to ‘Goodwill’, but a haven to those who can see the story behind the skeleton keys that hang in the cases above the couch. The story of the half-used fading crayons. Those who can see the humor of our chicken nest in the attic are some of our family’s best friends. Those who tell us to get rid of the tokens that we love are the butt of the joke in future stories. We may not be neat, but we defiantly are happy.