I wrote this thirteen years ago and just found it and re-read it.
It stings a little bit, still. At the time I called it:
Caught in Other Nets
I was helping my wife impose ordnung (look it up) on our basement the other day (mostly by staying out of her way). Not surprisingly, she and I have slightly different perspectives on how things are filed, stored and saved.
My views on all three are easy to catalog: wrong. All you need do is ask my wife. There's an eye roll and a medium-sized sigh (I used to only rate a small one) and now, as an added bonus from this sentence onward, there will be a vehement denial of the previous two, but don't be deceived.
We've lived in our house for many, many years. George Carlin is right, it's a place for your stuff. Our container is very attractive and spacious though the basement where she and I were working is, I imagine, a little like limbo but without all the unbaptized babies' souls (just as well as the dust bunnies are everywhere and there's always something you taste on the end of your tongues that you can't quite place or name).
We've been putting things in the basement since we moved in. Obvious items that we weren't yet willing to let go of-appliances that operated on 220 volts and fifty cycles and for which, to use here, you'd need a step-up transformer (I have one, make me an offer).
We've lived in our house for many, many years. George Carlin is right, it's a place for your stuff. Our container is very attractive and spacious though the basement where she and I were working is, I imagine, a little like limbo but without all the unbaptized babies' souls (just as well as the dust bunnies are everywhere and there's always something you taste on the end of your tongues that you can't quite place or name).
We've been putting things in the basement since we moved in. Obvious items that we weren't yet willing to let go of-appliances that operated on 220 volts and fifty cycles and for which, to use here, you'd need a step-up transformer (I have one, make me an offer).
There were less obvious items, more saved by the heart than the head. Neatly packed with contents listed on the outside of the carton were many of the toys and bric-a-brac from when our children, now adults, were much smaller.
Makes sense-you never know when a five-year-old 'Nur Patrick!' or a two-year-old 'Icky May' will swing by for an impromptu play date (though if my children learn I'm still using their pet names, I'll search out my skates since a warm place will have to be frozen over before they'll visit and maybe not even then.)
Some of the items looked like they were in the same boxes we used when we moved from Kasernenstrasse across town to Ahornstrasse in Offenbach (much closer to Stadion am Bieberer Berg). Without exchanging a word, I knew we wouldn't be placing any of those on the discard pile (I still have in the garage the chalkboard each child wrote on when they had their erste schultag).
It is amazing what you collect over the years and how much of it you can remember when you see it again (and how much you have NO clue about when reunited). I concede the disquieting part may be how much you become possessed by your possessions. Sigrid had boxes of singles (little records with big holes as I used to call them while she labeled my album collection, big records with little holes) and each dust cover came with a memory and a moment to match.
I think we both knew, and always did, that 'putting things in the basement' is code for pretending to remember who you once were even when you're less than comfortable with who you became.
Makes sense-you never know when a five-year-old 'Nur Patrick!' or a two-year-old 'Icky May' will swing by for an impromptu play date (though if my children learn I'm still using their pet names, I'll search out my skates since a warm place will have to be frozen over before they'll visit and maybe not even then.)
Some of the items looked like they were in the same boxes we used when we moved from Kasernenstrasse across town to Ahornstrasse in Offenbach (much closer to Stadion am Bieberer Berg). Without exchanging a word, I knew we wouldn't be placing any of those on the discard pile (I still have in the garage the chalkboard each child wrote on when they had their erste schultag).
It is amazing what you collect over the years and how much of it you can remember when you see it again (and how much you have NO clue about when reunited). I concede the disquieting part may be how much you become possessed by your possessions. Sigrid had boxes of singles (little records with big holes as I used to call them while she labeled my album collection, big records with little holes) and each dust cover came with a memory and a moment to match.
I think we both knew, and always did, that 'putting things in the basement' is code for pretending to remember who you once were even when you're less than comfortable with who you became.
Not having to confront that person is a luxury I can afford though I probably enjoy it too much. For a moment we were as we see ourselves instead of as others do and who we really are. I'd chance it again without regret because the moment (however fleeting) seems to linger and abide a while before disappearing.
-bill kenny
-bill kenny
No comments:
Post a Comment