My family artifact is a purple club-type chair. It has brass tacks lining the curved arms, and it is about the size of two almost full grown pigs sacked on top of each other. The chair has five buttons on the front for a reason that I do not know, and there are four two and a half inch honey colored legs at the base. The chair is made of fabric, metal, and wood. My grandparents bought it at a yard sale when my dad was born, and then eventually, it was passed down to us. Because it was used so much over all these years, the leather was torn, ripped, and the stuffing was pouring out of it, so my parents decided to get it reupholstered. Before we could send it away, we had to do a deep cleaning to the chair. It was gross. We ended up taking Cheerios, almonds, raisins, an old fashion barbie stocking that one belonged to my aunt, who’s now like, FORTY, and the weirdest of them all, (drum roll please), a butter knife, that belonged to my grandparents when they were in their twenties. It was terrible. The chair is something that no one really owns. We use it regularly, like for sitting, watching TV, reading books, and welcoming guests. It is our chair, and though it may not be quite what people think an artifact is, it feels like one to me.