Now that my mold problem in the basement has been resolved, I rummaged through several old trunks and plastic storage tubs down there last week and tried to make some sense of why things were stored the way they were.
For example, in one storage container there were 10 different Star Wars action figures, a set of kitchen knives, a book about Babe Ruth, an old electric drill, a singing Santa figurine and a swimsuit I’d last worn when I was 19.
Why, I wondered, would those items all be grouped together in the same container when they had about as much in common as a jellyfish and a camel?
So I decided I was going to arrange everything stored in the basement into similar groups and then give each group its own container. At least then I would be able to find items more quickly. I mean, if I were about to bake something and wanted to dig out my old cookie-cutters, I'd be more likely to locate them in a container marked “Baking Accessories” than buried beneath items like pillowcases, dog toys and VHS tapes in the bottom of an unmarked container.
Filled with enthusiasm and determination, I opened one of the approximately 75 storage tubs I intended to organize.
Almost immediately there was a problem. Instead of separating the items into categories, I sat back and read every old card and letter I found. And when I came across a folder of old photos, I just had to look through all of them.
I was particularly intrigued by a series of photos I'd taken years ago during yet another one of my 1,125 diets. Before I actually began the diet, I'd posed for a "before" photo while wearing a stretchy blue leotard. Then every time I dropped 10 pounds, I'd pose for another photo in the exact outfit to show my progress. There were nine photos in all, beginning at 235 lbs. and ending at 145. They reminded me of that old movie, "The Incredible Shrinking Woman."
Unfortunately, they also reminded me of “The Incredible Aging Woman.” The more weight I lost, the more my face and body sagged in every photo, until I pretty much resembled a cross between a Shar-Pei and a basset hound in a leotard.
Suddenly I needed a break from organizing because I was craving cookies.
I also found a framed photo taken at my high school’s winter semi-formal. My date was a nice-looking guy from a high school across town. He was very quiet and shy, and barely said two words all night. In the photo, the way we were posed and the expressions on our faces reminded me of that farm couple in Grant Wood’s American Gothic painting. The only thing missing was the pitchfork.
A few years later, I saw in the newspaper that my “quiet and shy” date from that night had been arrested for shooting his roommate.
In the third container I opened, I found some of my late husband's things...many of which puzzled me.
For example, there was a gallon-sized Zip-loc bag that contained eight men’s wallets, all old and worn-out. I searched through them, hoping to find a $20 bill or two, but all I found were long-expired credit cards and driver's licenses.
To be honest, when I first saw all of those wallets, I wondered if my husband might secretly have been moonlighting as a pickpocket, so I was relieved that everything in them had his name on them and not some stranger's. One wallet was so old, there still was a photo of one of my husband's ex-girlfriends from the 1960s tucked in it…the same petite, shapely, dark-haired ex-girlfriend he’d once mentioned bore a striking resemblance to Annette Funicello.
All I can say is his ex's body parts didn’t look quite so perky or Annette-like after I shoved her photo through the paper shredder.
I also found the spare keys to every car my husband had owned since his 1969 VW Beetle, along with his first pair of bowling shoes, a brightly patterned Mexican poncho and a big, puffy fur hat with furry ear flaps. It resembled one of those hats Russians wear in Siberia, and was made of some kind of real animal fur that fell out in clumps the moment I touched it.
I thought it was a strange thing for my husband to own because he'd always been the type who complained about being hot even in mid-winter, and usually wore his spring jacket in February.
I’d never seen him wear that hat even once…probably because he was afraid our dogs would catch a whiff of it and attack him.
In the next container, on which the lid was warped and didn't fit very tightly, I found several stuffed animals, a cast-iron frying pan (covered in rust), formerly white Go-Go boots (also sporting some rust, thanks to the pan), a vintage Monopoly game and…
The world’s most hideous-looking spider on steroids.
That put an immediate end to my desire to organize anything down in the basement ever again.
Sally Breslin is an award-winning syndicated humor columnist who has written regularly for newspapers and magazines all of her adult life. She is the author of several novels in a variety of genres, from humor and romance to science-fiction. Contact her at: sillysally@att.net.
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