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Grandma called with a most intriguing request. She wanted permission to finally let go of a piece of artwork I created in the early 1970s. If I wanted to keep it, that would be fine, too. She could wrap it up and mail it to me when the weather broke -- she recently moved to upstate New York to be near my uncle and they'd been having snowstorms regularly since she arrived.

As soon as she began speaking, I knew precisely which piece of artwork she had kept through three decades and as many moves. It was simple as far as art goes -- no larger than 5 inches by 7 inches. My grandfather had proudly framed it after I presented it to my grandparents as a gift.

A piece of construction paper, a lopsided crayon sketch of a vase, some sticks and a handful of rice cereal glued around the sticks. It was my preschool interpretation of an arrangement of pussy willows. Nothing spectacular.

When I received the call, I was shocked that she still had the picture. I'm the second of more than a dozen grandchildren. She also has nearly a dozen great-grandchildren. And out of all the artwork she must have received through the years, this one had endured.

Maybe the texture -- sticks and puffed rice -- set it apart from simple coloring book pages. Maybe puffed rice cereal and sticks, with enough glue, has a greater shelf life than a Twinkie. Maybe it was the orange background that fit in well with grandma's kitchen. She still loves to decorate with orange.

I actually hesitated, thinking maybe I should keep the old piece of art, before finally giving grandma "permission" to toss it already. Clearly I had the same pack rat instincts as my grandmother, but I decided it was best to let go.

It was time to move on. I had graduated from "library school," as the three-day-a-week preschool activity I attended in the basement of our town library was called back then, about a million years ago. My artwork has improved greatly since the pussy willow piece.

Remembering my preschool experience led to thoughts of my own children and their long ago days in preschool. That's when I realized why grandma kept the pussy willows all this time. Being only the second grandchild, it may have been one of the very first gifts she received after earning the title "grandma."

Who am I to judge? I still have the seashell my oldest presented to me at age 1.

He had been playing in the sand, still a bit wary of the loud, crashing ocean. As he built up the courage to venture closer to the water, a breaking wave brought him a shell. Amazed at the generosity of the ocean, he picked up the shell and waddled over to me. He proudly held up the shell. "Wow, what a great shell!" I said, sharing in his enthusiasm.

"For mommy," he said as he put it in my hand.

"But this is your shell. The ocean gave it to you." I tried to protest, but he wouldn't have it.

"For mommy," he said again. Then he kissed my cheek, lost his balance, fell in the sand, got up and went back to his sand toys.

He was my first child. It was the first present he ever gave me. The tears dripped down as my heart filled with a warm, tender joy I'd never before experienced. I was convinced I had given birth to the most generous, caring, thoughtful creature on earth. I was also overly emotional, as his first brother was a mere three weeks away from entering our lives.

That seashell, which still holds the top spot for best gift ever in my life, resides in my jewelry box.

Mother's Day cards, Christmas ornaments, homemade birthday cards, various pieces of artwork and a few original stories, all created by my three children, fill nooks and crannies of closets, drawers and shelves throughout our house.

Each possesses its own sentimental history. Each will be cherished forever. Each will cause my children to roll their eyes and wonder, "What is all this junk?" when they someday go through my possessions.

Of course, genetics being what it is, they will probably keep a good portion of the sentimental clutter as they travel down memory lane and realize how special each trinket is to them.

On second thought, maybe I will call grandma back and see if she can send me that pussy willow picture. I have the perfect spot for on a wall in my office. I was thinking of painting the trim a nice faded orange anyway.

Micki Bare is a columnist for the Arkansas News Bureau and the Courier-Tribune in Asheboro, N.C., and author of the book, "Relative Expressions." She lives in Asheboro with her husband and three children. Her e-mail address is mickibare@inspiredscribe.com.