One of the down? up? sides of owning a big, rambling house is that many things can fit in it. If you count the creepy basement, our home has four flours — plus several large closets, a garage and a shed. And some of the first people to notice this lavish storage space were my parents.
I shouldn’t have been surprised, really. The cast from when Patrick Henderson broke my pinkie finger, my extensive penny collection, and my coveted pair of six-hole Doc Martens all spent many years rotting in their basements. Literally rotting. As in, my poor Docs were covered in mould.
My mom was the first person to kindly drop off a bin of childhood surprises, including the following:
Last week, I spent an hour or two in my dad’s basement and was handed the following treasures:
A few days ago, I received a large Rubbermaid full of old photo albums. Tucked away in a corner was my ten year old self’s most prized possessions: my marble collection.
These trips down memory lane were horrifying? pleasantly nostalgic? interesting.
I ended up putting a lot of stuff right in the garbage. Some, like my marbles, are now on display. And some I packed away in my basement, stairwell cubby, and attic closet — ready to be rediscovered when we move in a decade or two.
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