At the farm in Wisconsin...my grandpa patched a broken garage window with my old chalkboard.
I remember learning to write on it. Playing school. Drawing dresses and houses. Rubbing the white chalk dust on my maroon corduroy pants. Writing menus when we played restaurant.
I haven't seen it since I was a child. I had no idea it still existed.
My grandma rolls her eyes (in a loving way - hard to explain) about my grandpa's silly patch job, but I think it is beautiful.
