Why Does This Ugly Cat Bank Have Such a Strong Hold On Me?
Throwing out the past. Well, trying to.
Prepare yourself. Before I let you see the basement, you must understand that my husband Mark and I are savers.
We’ll find a practical, financial, or how-could-we-ever-part-with-this reason to hold onto anything. The cremated remains of our first four dogs are down there. Mark stuck them on a high shelf thinking I wouldn’t notice them, but in a moment you’ll see how the halogen lights hit the gold-foil funeral home logo on the gift bags they’re in. Our good boys and girls are practically in the spotlight.
After 21 years in this house, we’re moving out.
Nearly everything in the basement has to go. Please pull the door shut behind you. If the cats follow us down here, we’ll never see them again.
Maybe it looks familiar. Our basement is part Antiques Roadshow, part post-apocalyptic Bed, Bath & Beyond. Don’t worry, I’m not trying to empty it all tonight.
Mark and I do one trip down here a week. We fill one trash bag and take it to the curb. One bag seems doable. It’s kitchen-sized.
Thanks to last month’s dismemberment and removal of our 2005 treadmill, there is now space to walk. Single file.
Stay on the path to spot family highlights from the early 2000s.
A box full of soccer trophies, a bin with hundreds of Matchbox cars, another similar-sized bin with miles of wooden tracks for Thomas the Tank Engine and all his train friends, which (who?) reside in yet another bin. I’d get rid of them, but what if we have grandkids one day?
Hold up a sec. See that sterile-looking storage cabinet?
It’s filled with platters, candle holders, and all my grandparents’ stemware — five different styles, each one a set of 12 — which I graciously accepted from them years before I realized I’m an introvert who doesn’t throw dinner parties. Surely the glasses can go — actually, never mind, I’m gonna learn how to eBay.
Don’t lean on that wicker dresser. It wobbles.
It has since a pint-sized Max tried to climb it back in ’06. I should chuck it, but the drawers are full. One has sewing notions from when I made quilts for friends’ weddings and babies. I should get back to that. Another has bags of beads I bought at an incense-filled hippie haven during high school. The bottom drawer is stuffed with negatives. Mark and I didn’t get our first digital camera until we were four years, two kids, and two dogs into parenthood.
I can dump the negatives, right? Just don’t tell Mark. He’ll want to find a place that digitizes them. Actually, that could be a cool proj — no, nope. Gone. Finally, something in my trash bag!
I think I went about this the wrong way.
Maybe, like the treadmill, I should focus on larger items, to make a bigger impact faster. See this sturdy cardboard box, the one that’s nearly as big as the dresser? Inside is my wedding dress, perfectly preserved from 1998.
As a mom of boys, I won’t be passing down the gown, but then what? Let’s ask Google. Alter it into a cocktail dress. Turn it into a piece of art. No and no. The trash-the-dress trend is interesting, but I’d have to fit into it first. Donating it would be cool. Oh, hold on, they make infant burial shrouds out of them. Yeah, no.
Moving on.
Mind those stalagmites of VHS tapes, board games, and LEGO instruction books. That mountain of unused camping equipment is prone to avalanche, so give it a wide berth. There are random cables and bits of broken glass everywhere. Do step with caution.
Last stop before we go up and de-cobweb ourselves. The back wall. Voila! My plastic tub organization system. It looks better if you remove your glasses. Imagine these oversized storage tubs were once neatly stacked, three high, four across. My tub wall may look more like the clearance rack at a shoe warehouse — boxes scattered, lids half off, contents strewn everywhere — but I promise you, there is a system.
Garbage jackpot
See, this tub is still closed and it bears a very helpful “Noah 4T” masking-tape label. That’s what I call guilt-free trash. Even Goodwill won’t want kid clothes from 20 years ago. Oh whoops. Art supplies. Hey, I might need that bottle of gesso. I wonder if this polymer clay is still good. I could make some funky beads with it. And check out this stash of embroidery floss. It would be great for those sashiko patterns I just downloaded.
Look over there. Yes, with your glasses this time.
It’s my Shy Little Kitten bank — once a fixture on the brown shag carpeting in my grandparents’ den. Grandpa Harry made 25-cent deposits every Friday for 18 years. It still smells of quarters. See the nicks along the red stopper? At each visit, I’d sneak a knife from the kitchen and dig it out so I could count my coins and dream about what I would exchange them for at the toy store the next day. Yes, I know it’s hideous. But look, I can’t put the cat in the trash bag. You can understand.
Well, I didn’t throw much away, but at least I got rid of these negatives. The question is, can I sneak them past Mark when we get back upstairs?
Karen Scholl is a writer and recovering soccer mom living the dream in a flyover state. Her humor book Surviving Soccer: A Chill Parent’s Guide to Carpools, Calendars, Coaches, Clubs, and Corner Kicks is forthcoming from Triumph Books.
