When I was around 6 years old my grandfather decided me and my brother needed some blocks to play with. He came to America from Ireland. His upbringing was rural and with that came a very strong work ethic. He worked three jobs almost his whole life, and as such had skill with things such as woodwork. He made us the most bad-ass block collection I've ever seen out of spare wood he had used for various things such as mending his fence. We aren't talking just straight blocks, we're talking blocks with bends and odd shapes; tetris-esque. Sanded to near softness and then finished with a stain.

He ended up passing two years later from cancer. At 8 years old I wanted those blocks; I wasn't really sure why, I just wanted them. We had always kept them at my grandmother's house, so on the next trip over there I asked to have them. My grandmother (a very bitter, old Irishwoman) told me that they weren't getting enough use, and had disposed of them. I cried that day.

Now years later of course I understand why I wished to have them, but at the time it was kind of a "weird attachment" because I don't think I really understood death, or that the reason I wanted those blocks were because they were a direct connection to the person who had created them. I was too young.

A few years later, after I had moved nearly across the country, I was in town for Easter, and after rummaging around in the basement I found one of the few single square blocks that he had made. I have it sitting on my desk.

Tl;dr Had an attachment to some pieces of scrap wood.