With Real Toads: a memory bowl

Ella, of the writers' group Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, has suggested we put some items into a bowl to see what memories they trigger, then write a poem about the thoughts that come to us.
I chose a bowl I dearly love, although it is very plain and isn't a particularly inspiring color. I cherish it because it belonged to my grandmother, whom I loved very, very much.
I placed a few items, at random, into the bowl, then tried to take photos of it. I've somehow messed up the settings on my good camera, and, although I opened the flash, it didn't come on. Therefore, all the photos are out of focus.
I was halfway through writing the above paragraph before I remembered I have another camera. It's one of those days. If you're not my age yet, you likely will be some day, and you'll know what I mean.

Out of focus, don't try enlarging! :-)

I only put half a dozen objects into the bowl. If you could see my house, you'd know there are too many objects everywhere. One of the few empty places happened to be this bowl. In here, I have a beaded coin purse my best friend gave me because we both love baseball. She has now moved to England with her British-born husband, and baseball is in very short supply over there.

Then there's a pencil with no eraser. I have a pink eraser somewhere. And there's a bright orange tape measure. This is my 50-foot tape. I can't find my hundred-foot tape, and I often want to measure things outside. It belongs with the pencil because I am always designing and re-designing houses, in case our present little house burns down (heaven forbid) or in case the town office decides to let us subdivide our large lot.

Then there are some spare sequins from my brown jacket. I will never use them, even if some fall off the jacket, because I can't see to thread a needle, or use one. Then there is a keychain with a Russian matryoshka doll on it. Viking River Cruises gave one to each passenger on their Waterways of the Czars cruise in August.

Wikipedia photo — the tomb of the unknown soldier,  Ottawa, Canada.

And, finally, there's a poppy. Friday, November 11, is Remembrance Day in Canada, when we remember those who died in World War I and since.

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Nanny's bowl and Judith's purse,

tape measure, pencil, here,

so I can sit and think and plan

of what I'll put right there.

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Matryoshka doll so tiny,

and purple sequins, too

that won't get sewn on anywhere,

no matter what I do.

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But the poppy—

the poppy's for remembrance,

for my grandfather's war,

my father's war,

and other wars that came

where Canadian peacekeepers perished:

everyone thought it a shame.

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At the eleventh hour of the eleventh day

of the eleventh month in the eleventh year,

a minute of silence hushes us

at school, at work, at home,

and we remember.

We remember, too, to keep in our hearts

the young men dying today,

far from home, and far from hope

of peace, in the blood, and the grey, grey mud.

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