Our basement needs work. While I’ve attacked it in the past, even 5 years of clutter can seem impossible. Jeff has been working at getting some of his lumber flotsam up and out, but he tends to rummage in the non-lumber areas as well, and it is not uncommon for the basement to belch up several books, or another oddment which I’m just not ready to deal with yet.
Let’s leave that in the basement, I say. I’m just not ready to sort it yet. So back down it goes. Usually with me.
Today’s surprise basement burpage was a batch of semi-unrolled blueprint packets, strewn copiously across the kitchen counter. I recognized them. 228 Otterbein St--the first place we lived together.
Iiiiiigg I splutter, my clutter-aversion anxiety beginning to knot up my innards. What’s this doing here?
I did this, says Jeff, spreading out one of the rolls. I planned this, and drew it, and built it. Me and [cousin] Robin.
My knot unknots. My angst unangsts. I look at the drawing. A detailed rendering of a house--carefully measured, intricately marked, detailed features neatly sketched in. Look, Jeff says, I used to be able to do this stuff.
Yes, I say. You did do it. And it’s good. You pretty much designed and built the house we’re in right now too. Smile. Hug. The blueprints disappear later without my asking.
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