Memories in storage

I couldn’t take it any more.  You’d never guess I’m a hoarder.  There are no scribbles from grandkids on my refrigerator, no decorations for the upcoming holidays on display.  I’ll admit to a little clutter here and there.  I’m a lived-in housekeeper.  You’re confident I’ve attended to chores within the last decade, yet comfortable enough to plop down on any sofa — even if it means you have to move a short stack of papers elsewhere.  I shine in internal organization — that was until the Reporter retired.  He now has kitchen duty.  The other day I opened my spice drawer, and can you believe it, the little jars are no longer alphabetized?

But then you step into the garage and it all changes.  A giant storage bin for things I can’t bear to toss — the saved for parts stash — a mere stump of what’s left of the 4x6x10 piece of lumber, odd sized cuts of leftover wallboard, twenty-four boxes of discontinued flame light bulbs I bought at a Home Depot closeout for 1¢ each, the yellow antique dresser picked up free from someone’s driveway (missing a top), the whole house vacuum that’s never been installed because I decided to lay hardwood, the window panes ordered in the wrong size, the Xerox drum that’s been replaced (saved just in case; afterall it only leaves a couple of streaks on the printed page), the GPS with the witchy navigation lady, and rolled up remnants of carpeting.  The extra carpeting did come in handy the time Coco agreeably cleaned the family room rug.  She boiled a pot of water, and then sat it down for moments on the carpet while she opened the water tank on the shampooer.  Just long enough for the hot pot to sink right through to the concrete.  Who knew?

I opened the car door last night and could hardly get out.  Like the arrangement of boxes against all four walls had taken a deep breath and suddenly exhaled.  Kind of like I feel when I unzip my one size fits most jeans. 

I began my search and destroy mission to get the contents back into some kind of organized chaos.  Remember I’m doing this one finger short of a full palm. 

I climbed up on a ladder and placed loose wood planks in their box.  Yes, I was still in office clothes, but had removed my nylons and shoes.  If I took time to change clothes, I’d be out of the mood.  (It doesn’t take much.)  I flattened several large cumbersome cardboard boxes and toted them up the ladder to store in the rafters.  I might need them when I move.  I haven’t moved in twenty years, but you never know when the urge might strike. 

From up high (four rungs is pretty high) I saw quite a view.  I don’t remember how the matching penguins (but then have you ever seen a penguin that didn’t match?) got on the rafters.  The abandoned Strawberry Shortcake dollhouse, guarded by a blue My Little Pony, now relegated to the low rent district.  Below I caught a glimpse of the plaster of Paris of the Virgin Mary (I’m not Catholic) in the corner and seventeen 50-pound buckets of wheat (should I get a notion to bake bread, I’m good to go).

Then out of the deepest corner of my mind’s eye, I saw Hot Wheelz sneak the six pack of strawberry soda into the garage, and puke twice the volume.  I envisioned young children smeared in acrylic paint running around as I attempted to teach art classes in the garage.  Then I spotted a single flipper.  (And I thought they mated for life.)  I accidentally knocked a blue plastic cold pack off the rafter.  It fell and hit me in the foot.  I didn’t cry, but I may just have a use for that single flipper.  And it did take my mind off my throbbing finger.

I climbed down and grabbed a large bag of junk to dump.  The attached lid from the trashcan bonked me in the head and knocked my glasses into the recyclable container.  Are glasses recyclable?

I thumbed through an old photo album atop the filing cabinet, went upstairs and watched an old VHS movie — Strictly Ballroom — I had removed from the Salvation Army recycling bag.  You just can’t be too eager to donate something with so much life still in it.  The car door now opens wide.  All in all, a pretty productive evening.

Related posts:

1. List for the doctor
2. Sunday morning with kids
3. Long ago in the land of milk and cookies