Domestic Archaeology

After Christmas, I stayed at Dad's for a couple weeks with the intention of helping him and my brother with some home improvement projects.  We ended up spending almost all of that time working at my brother's place, but both of his stairways are now safer, one is substantially more gussied up, and the other is on its way to becoming a closet (it was a very steep stairway).  I'm disappointed we couldn't get more done for Dad, but I'm very pleased with the progress we made at my brother's house.  I also had a lot of fun playing with my nephew and trying to teach him where his shoulders are, but I might write something about that later.

Today my brother had other plans, so I had the day off, and decided to see how much clutter I could eliminate from Dad's place.  Going through one room yielded a small armload to discard, a larger armload to donate, and a box of T-shirts from college I may one day have converted into a quilt.  That won't save me any space, but at least I'll get a quilt out of it.

After lunch, I went downstairs, to the room that was mine a long, long time ago.  At the time, I was happy to finally have my own room, even if it was in the basement, and I occasionally woke up to the sound of mice in my trashcan.  Letting the cat sleep in my room helped a little.  When I went to college, that room inexplicably began to fill with things that were definitely not mine, yet somehow became my problem since "they're in your room."  The bed became buried under a pile of debris; some of it was mine, some of it is a mystery.  Over the years, being in the basement has ruined a lot of my things.  Some of them were once treasured possessions.  Mom once bought me a hand-cut stamp in the shape of a gecko; moisture and mold have since destroyed it.  Mice have chewed holes in boxes, clothing, and a pillow.  Damp ate a poster, and several books.  I look around that room at items which once defined my life, and just wonder what can be salvaged.

I filled three trash bags before I gave up for the day, and I've barely started moving through the room.  I should have done this every week I was home, slowly moving bags out to the roadside on garbage days.  My progress might have been more apparent.

I found my very first sleeping bag, an old school backpack, a polo shirt from a job I had in high school.  A letter from a girl I've forgotten, and a postcard from a girl who's probably forgotten me.  All of it went in the trash.

I was elated to find my set of double-twelve dominoes (no joke--I've been looking for those everywhere for ages), and I also turned up two bandannas I've been trying to locate.  Under a bulletin board, somehow untouched by the ravages of basement living, I found the only Beanie Baby I ever owned (purchased by Mom as part of a fast-food deal, if I remember correctly), and later realized that it shares a nickname with The Girl, which is a little weird.  I found a letter from one of my aunts, dated just after Mom died and I went back to college, commending me for my actions, and wishing me luck in my return to school.  I packed all of it in my bags, and I can only hope that airport security won't consider the box of dominoes a weapon.

Everyone keeps asking if I'll be back before my hike.  I honestly don't know, but if I do, I'll go back to the basement, if only for a little bit, to make what progress I can, and see what other artifacts of my early life I might find.