The basement

It’s scary, messy and memory-filled.

My daughter wanted to get a head start on decorating her bedroom for Christmas. She asked me to get her “designated box” out of the basement. I’m so proud of her using the word “designated”. I’m also thankful that she created her own box and labeled it as such. In a sea of unlabeled boxes, bins, tarps, rusty old tools, weird cribs, angry spiders and general chaos, it’s nice to be able to easily locate something.

I told her I would get the box for her “soon” which she correctly translated to “indefinitely”. So she set out to get it on her own. Solid move on her part as she knew that would spring me into action. Our basement is like an un-fun obstacle course created by Jigsaw.

It couldn’t be more dangerous down there.

One false step and you may be buried under a malfunctioned snowman or a collection of bad Hair Metal CD’s. One movement of a box can set off a chain of events resulting in being covered in Hepplewhite Ivory or some toxic chemical.

Because of that, no one is allowed to visit but me. That is my hard and fast rule.

I think my family thinks I’m running a meth ring in the basement or hiding Eleven from the government, but the truth is I’m concerned for their safety. I don’t want them ever setting foot down there.

Not now at least.

But I hope to change that in the near future.

I’m in the early stages of “Make the Basement Approachable Again”. This is an undertaking that exceeds the definition of “undertaking” but I’m determined to see it through.

I want to be able to use my weight bench without fear of cutting my achilles tendon on a rusty handsaw.

I want my wife to be able to easily retrieve a bottle of wine from our classy wine holder without encountering wolf spiders.

I want my son to be able to get a screwdriver without fear of tripping on a mousetrap as he decides which vodka he wants to use.

I want my daughter to not require GPS while she gets her Christmas decorations.

I kicked things off last weekend by clearing one section of the basement so I could bleach the floors. Mold removal/prevention is priority one.

Within 25 seconds I encountered a dead mouse adhered to the floor. I couldn’t shake him free with a broom handle so I used a hammer and chisel.

Speaking of mice, we have them.

They destroyed our Thanksgiving wheat bundles.

Don’t ask why they weren’t secured in their appropriate bin.

They also created a mouse village in all of the Easter baskets. I guess I shouldn’t have stored them with the convenient green grass still in them.

I brought a box that contained a bunch of my wife’s childhood stuff upstairs for a trip down memory lane. As soon as I put it down our dog, Mia, buried her head inside and started chowing on something.

Panic stricken and afraid that she ate something from 1973, I reached in and discovered piles of dog food, from what era we have no idea. Our best guess is that it was from a few years back when mice had destroyed a bag of dog food that had been sitting on the landing to the basement. They must have carried it down to their newly built community in this box, where they all survived on the kibble. They also created bunkers/beds in my wife’s old jewelry box.

All sounds funny except it wasn’t.

Spending so much time in the basement has not only become a trip down memory lane but a strange emotional journey. Just a glance at the forgotten books precariously stacked on an about-to-fall bookshelf tells a tale of years past.

“What to Expect When You’re Expecting”

“Home Repairs for Dummies”

“Idiot’s Guide to Raising a Labrador Retriever”

For the uninformed, we read books, B … O … O … K … S, before the internet became all the rage you annoying millennials.

There’s the usual overflow of photos, most reflecting two parents that had yet to develop the scars from parenthood.

Memories of pets who once stole our hearts .. and mysteriously disappeared one day never to be found although that story has been altered to protect certain people in the house.

Yes, that is a grow light on top of an anole cage on top of a Wii Nintendo foot board on top of a bin of snow pants. Master stacking at its finest.

Tools, ha, funny. As if I know how to use any of them. It’s all for show.

The truth is my father-in-law had helped us with so many home projects for the past decade and these are the remnants of what was needed for each of those projects.

I use the the word “had” because my father-in-law passed away back in September. Beyond the reward of getting things done in the house, we miss his presence when he was helping us. We miss his hearty laugh as we encountered issues along the way. We miss his passion for home improvements and his passion for helping us.

As I’ve navigated the basement, there have been other reminders of him.

His softball prowess.

The old coffee maker from the coffee shop he once owned.

His great collection of records that were part of a prior basement flooding so are no longer functioning but the covers themselves are so worth keeping.

There’s such a balance of keeping order and tidiness versus the sheer enjoyment of keeping these memories alive, even if they take up space and add to the clutter.

I guess my job now is to preserve these memories as best as possible and allow for new ones to enter once they’ve passed their shelf life in the main living space upstairs.

The task to finish the organization and cleaning of the basement is still daunting but I’ve got all winter to do it.

I keep telling myself a little at a time.

Focus on the end goal but do my best to enjoy the journey in getting there.