Sunday, March 16, 2008

Cleaning Day

I spent this morning doing one of the things I hate the most, cleaning. Just the upstairs, but that was enough. It hadn't been touched up here since the spackle dust disaster of a couple of weeks ago and things were pretty well covered with that light, talcum-like layer, plus the usual ambient cat hair and whatever else goes into the making of a dust bunny. (Or make that dust rabbit in this case, or even hare. Nothing cute and bunny-ish about it.)

While I was working here in my room, which functions as a bedroom and office, I started on the major task of throwing things away or moving them someplace else, in preparation for painting day up here, which could be coming in the next month. I would show you a picture of this cluttered space, but it's not fit for public examination. Suffice to say there's too much stuff in here. One thing that will have to go is a lacquered Chinese black bookcase friends gave us when they were moving. It was too beautiful to think of being relegated to a junk store, so we took it. The only place for it was in here. It's become the resting place of things I never touch, much less look at--antique magazines and newspapers I've bought over the years because I think it's fun to read the old advertisements; various self-help and exercise books, and souvenirs from the trips we've taken.

Steve inherited the scrap book habit from his crafts-oriented family. They all love(d) making things, putting pieces together into a whole, from useful househ0ld objects to collections of miscellany. I guess Steve assumed everybody's like that; somehow I went along with the assumption and the trip stuff ended up in my room. Alas, I don't have the scrapbook gene. My parents were no slouches in the handy-person department, but they weren't collectors beyond the standard pictures and letters. So the scraps that should be in their book by now are just in piles, in varying states of entropy, mostly degrees of "advanced." They collect dust, their composite parts stick out every which way, randomly. Not to put too fine a point on it, they're a mess. My solution: put them in a plastic storage bag, put the bag in a box, pack the box away, and let my heirs discover them. Is that awful? Hmmm...upon consideration, yes, it is.

So I'll make the scrapbooks. Then, guess what? I'll put the books in a box, pack the box away, and let my heirs discover them.


Kat said...

My mother used to warn us by saying, "Just wait until I toes up." She had all the cards we sent her, magazines and so much more.

You would have found them easily. They were in boxes, lovingly saved.

Ralph said...

That's pretty much the scenario I envision, too. If I ever do get around to putting that stuff in a book, it'll be fun to relive those times, once. Then I know they'll be put away until my heirs look at them. (Probably once.)