Deep from one of the flooded bins on the carport, I rescued this. It’s a little bag I made when I was around 15. I don’t remember if I used my jeans, Riley’s, or First Love Tim’s, but it had a rawhide cord that pulled it into a little pouch, and I often hung it from a belt loop. That rawhide cord had come out and become a slimy thing that scared the crap out of me because I thought there was a snake in the bin, even though snakes aren’t slimy and whatever, fear knows no reason. After some serious laundering, my little denim bag is fine. As I recall, we called these dope bags, but I never had pot in mine, probably only a few dollars and some change. Always had to have a dime with me for that emergency call. There’s a whole generation who thinks phone calls were a quarter, and more generations who don’t know what a pay phone is.