WWIT

Jim has had a much better week, being awake and up substantially more. All the kids and grandkids were here for a family dinner Wednesday, and he came down and stayed several hours. That hasn't happened for a very long time.

A saying goes, "If you bite the head off a frog, first thing in the morning, the day is guaranteed to improve." Thus inspired, I decided to purge the cellar of all the stuff that has been crying out to be removed. Water has been seeping through the field stone foundation. I think they used paper mache for grout, since it crumbles each time I touch it . Everything is covered with mildew or rust, and filled with dampness, just for a start. Truly, this is the tenth circle of Hell.

Visualize me muttering to myself as I go through this process. Not just occasionally, an entire run-on conversation.

There are souvenirs for every decade of our marriage... mostly my stuff. If I had to summarize it all with one phrase, it would be "What Was I Thinking?" (henceforth, WWIT?) After 6 hours down there, my forehead is bruised from smacking it with my palm, and declaring, WWIT?

I acquired a whole lot of stuff because I was a caterer. In the middle of the cellar floor rests a huge industrial meat slicer. Worked the last time I tried it, but the intimidation factor is key. Sounds like a B52. Keep or off load? Offload. (note to self-- don't sell any more sliced ham. ) Big baskets that once displayed dainty sandwiches but are now kissed with mould. Fa-ling!!

Wet cartons. More wet boxes. Nose keeps running.

A pasta maker... no, wait, TWO pasta makers, one a yard sale find, the other from a friend who wised up sooner. Pasta is two pounds for a buck. But nooo, I had some perverse need to make it from scratch. WWIT? Pitch them... no wait... yard sale them. There's one born every minute.

Some stuff I have accepted as part of someone else's purge. I have a virgin salad shooter that is likely to remain so. Yard sale. I accepted a stainless steel, industrial-sized dual soup warmer, as big as a golden retriever (not counting the tail). Lotta soup. Out of here.

Are there mice hiding in some of these boxes, waiting for me to reach in..... Wonder if there is a carton big enough and dry enough to haul me out of here if that happens?

Adrian is Laura's boyfriend. He is also my "knight in well-worn shorts". He does so much around here, including all the landscaping and mowing. But beyond that, he is a Good Man. I bestow the title of "Good Man" very judiciously on a few men who are better, more honorable than average. Adrian is tireless in doing the heavy lifting, whether it is hauling junk out to the dumpster we just rented, or being there to cradle Jim's bleeding head while I called 911 some months back. More than anxious to be helpful, some days his quiet kindnesses are the difference between my getting through or sitting on the floor, sobbing at the futility of it all.

So, again, how did I get all this stuff? Well, for one thing, I became self-appointed conservator of all my mother left when she died. Holding on to her things made me feel I could keep a part of her. If she had treasured something, I sheltered it. WWIT? Of course most of what I love is upstairs; the 1960's stuff is in the cellar... or was. Do I actually plan to USE a fondue pot soon? Plonk. In the barrel!

Some things arrived when friends moved and had too little room for all their stuff so it came to live with me because I had a "big house". Little did they know I would be in charge of the watery execution of their possessions. Then again, many have been with me for upwards of 10 years, so they really can't get their shorts in too much of a knot.

Probably five years ago, I became engrossed (okay obsessed) with the question of what to do if there were a nuclear attack on Boston. Suitcase bomb...it was speculated about in the news, and Boston is in the Big Three along the northeast coast. Since Jim would be occupied and in the MEMA bunker as the state nuclear engineer, I might be faced with providing for the entire family for a while, in our basement. I researched for what was, until now, the most depressing summer of my life. How far would the fallout spread? What would we need to shelter in place? Have I taken complete leave of my senses? Will I need an aluminum foil helmet? At that time, the cellar was relatively dry, if dusty. Since then, the mice have nibbled at everything the mould didn't reach first. My supply of paper masks reek of mildew, and would render one unconscious almost instantly. Still haven't opened some of the well-sealed boxes, but my kids jovially referred to it all as "Mom's Scared-y Box" Just you wait and see how hard they bang on the door the very first time someone detonates just a teeny nuclear device. I still haven't decided if I will let them in. They'll have to apologize first.

Ok, I have an idea, lets beat Martha Stewart senseless. It's all her fault I thought I needed all these flipping goomsies and tchotchkies in the first place. (note, still no culpability on my part!)

I hereby charge my kids that when I am called to my reward, (whatever it be) get a dual-sized casket (do they do double-wides in caskets?) and cram as much of my clothing, shoes, trinkets, table linen and other useless stuff in there with me. Mahogany deviled egg plate from a long-ago cruise to Haiti (WWIT?) between my feet. Lay things right around my face... just jam as much in as you can. Taking it all with you sounds to me like only fair way to go. Maybe the Egyptians were on to something!