Dirty
Messy
Cold
Dark
Cobwebs
Dust
WTH
Hoarders
Really?
These are the words that come to mind when I think of our basement. It's filled with so much crap that we probably couldn't even identify most of it from memory.
Okay, so maybe some of it. Generally. Baby stuff; Scrapbook stuff; Old clothes; Stuffed animals; Holiday decorations; Spare dishes. But to specifically identify where some precious tangible memory can be found? Impossible. Here's how it goes . . .
I think of some must-find item and sigh when I realize where it probably is. I head downstairs. As I descend, it becomes colder and colder (is that real or metaphorical? probably both). The door knob is cold and unwelcoming. Clearly, the draft-reducing pool noodle type thingy is not doing it's job. The door paint is dirty and dingy. The concrete floor is a shock to my bare tootsies. The pile of recently discarded must-finds are creeping closer to the doorway, eventually to overtake our ability to enter. Bare-stud walls greet me, filled with chaotic wiring, pipes and tubes. (Where do those all go, anyway?) My senses are assaulted with a mix of jumbled piles, dust from ignored books and paint from unfinished Christmas gifts, and boxed-up, glassy-eyed, once-loved animals who now have a permanent home in this uninviting place. (I'm sad for them.) Once I remember why I went down there in the first place, I head to the logical spot, confident that my must-find will be found. High-stepping, ducking, dodging, and wading ensues. I dig through, shift, peek in, open, and move box after box after box. Scratch my head. Sneeze. Shiver. Try the second most logical spot and repeat the digging, shifting and peeking. After four or five unsuccessful hunts, I give up, realizing that my must-find won't be found, even if it wants to be.
As I make my way back to the cold door and up the gradually warming stairs, cursing myself for not wearing shoes and wondering where the band-aids are, I imagine my loyal must-find, wondering why it's hiding just below the surface of a partially-opened box amongst glasses and giraffes and cassette tapes, and not propped proudly on an organized shelf in a brightly painted warm room, protected from the dust, cherished like a precious tangible memory should be. I wonder, too.
And so it begins . . .
