It may not be Downton Abbey, but our lake house in Northern Wisconsin is a Memory Mansion - a miner's house we moved to the lake more than 50 years ago and turned into a rustic cottage with donated materials and workmanship that looks like a dad was teaching three young boys some basic carpentry, plumbing, masonry, and electrical work. Four generations of Nerenz and Wray hand-me-downs furnish the place going back to gaslamps that were unneeded when electricity came to Minneapolis, and each one has a story to tell and a reason for being where it is in the house.
Except for these tiny mice - nobody knows where then came from, why they are here, or who put them in the window frame. Everybody assumed somebody else wanted them there and so they stayed out of respect for whatever the deep meaning was. After about 30 years we finally figured out it wasn't any of us, but we decided that might be the best story of them all, and so they stay put.