First mission this morning: get to the basement and take a picture of the refrigerator.
Fridge the Second
This is the auxiliary fridge in my father’s house, and it contains more food than the only fridge in my house. Were I single or in college, this would not be interesting, however, I eat three meals a day in my house and live with some one who loves to cook. Our fridge is always stocked.
My father has a tendency toward excess. I write this lovingly; the following documentation of his basement is offered lightly and with a nod toward my own (occasionally ridiculous) minimalism. Bill’s house: 3,500 square feet + full basement packed to the ceilings. Lauren’s house: 720 square feet + sorta basement.
What makes me smile about the fridge arrangement is that this is almost all food that only my father eats. There is a package of hot dogs, some ground beef, and a few wine coolers that belong to Sandy, otherwise, this is all Bill. I doubt that the six cats are scarfing down tofutti sour cream. I should add that my dad probably weighs only thirty or so pounds more than me.
Next stop, luggage:
Luggage Department
This is the wall of luggage for two people. Note that the box at the upper right contains briefcases. Just briefcases.
Moving on, we come to the wall of Lauren. For years my father has been complaining about moving all of my stuff around, which has mystified me because as far as I knew all of my stuff was out of his house.
Me Department
About five years ago, he asked me to go through a half dozen boxes under the basement stairs of his old house. I kept what I wanted, and told him it was fine to put the rest of the boxes in the next donation pile. Still, he complained about all of my stuff when he moved into this house last year, and this morning I discovered why. The two shelves pictured to the right mostly contain boxes of… my stuff. Thing is, I haven’t seen these boxes of stuff in at least 25 years. Most are labeled in one of my parents’ handwriting and are still sealed with the original tape, which means that they were packed before I was old enough to pack my own stuff, so they likely the date to the move from Baltimore to Princeton when I was eight years old. The one box in a different handwriting, labeled “good books,” goes back to the move from Princeton to Yardley when I was ten. I know this because the handwriting clearly belongs to my best friend in the third and fourth grades, who helped me pack my room.
A box of stuff from my bat mitzvah - in 1988.
Misc. Childhood
So, the best guess I can make here, is that in every single move throughout my childhood, my father accidentally shoved two dozen boxes of stuff in basements and attics instead of my room, and for sixteen years since I left home he has been pissed off that I never figured this out and claimed my stuff. So, what am I supposed to do with this? I no longer have use for my old Uncle Remus tales, although I admit that the first generation Nintendo still in the box is sort of tempting.
Unlike the other boxes, this one was open. The trapper keeper was a surprise, and that orange thing in the middle is the badge I wore when I was a bus safety in fifth grade.
One last thing from the basement:
Doorhandles, mofo.
It’s a box of doorhandles. I do not know how to explain why I find this hilarious.
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