The current "line" brings to mind a story my grandmother used to tell. She was born and raised in Quincy, Illinois. When her grandparents died, her father had a simple headstone erected. Some years later when he became more prosperous, he replaced it with substantial monument. The old stone was set aside. Her mother, thrifty German that she was, couldn't see that "nice piece of marble going to waste," so she had it carted home, turned inscription side down, and placed it outside the kitchen door as a "stoop." Years later, after the property had passed into other hands, the occupant reported to the local paper that he had a recurring dream that every time he passed over the step, he had felt that he was stepping on a tombstone. One day he turned the stone over and found the truth! I still have the clipping. Gene Huber