This summer we are going to finish the basement. We already met with Kathy Trimble, who built our house twelve years ago. There are all kinds of relationships in the world, but the relationship you have with your custom builder is unique. The bonds are strong. For six months she was our best friend. I talked to her more times a day than my mother. She's seen me in my jammies on multiple occasions. Without a shower was the norm. "I'll be right there" was the goodbye line of many a call. We are both twelve years older but when she walked in the door with her long fur coat not a day had passed. The energy level is extremely high and you better hang on for the ride. Only a female builder would have closed on the house exactly 14 days before Calvin was born. Women get it done. This time--it's only the basement. Drywall and carpet will not be such an adventure, but still. . . .there are sure to be a couple fabricated urgencies. Faucets to pick TODAY. . . . I recall spray-painting the line for the driveway on the way out the door to my final prenatal appointment. . . no wonder they kept me in the office for high blood pressure.
So, everything in the basement has to go. To storage. This is wonderful. My basement is like a shadowy place in my mental health. Twelve years of hmmmm. . . put it in the basement. Playmobil town is in urban decay, an inner city of crime and filth has developed. The suburbs are encroaching upon the water heater. The Christmas "area" has spilled into the would-be wood shop and Bill's office has milk crates of extra stereo wire from his first apartment. It's past time for a clean sweep.
I know that everyone is different. Some of my dearest friends, who shall remain nameless, accuse me under their breath of undiagnosed levels of OCD. Well. It is what it is. I am who I am. Like listening to Mozart or Bach, having clean spaces, with a place for everything, clears my brain waves. The basement has been some twelve tone asymmetrical meter Schoenberg for too long. Or maybe it's Coltrane, I don't know. Regardless, just thinking about a fresh start makes me so happy. It makes me want to put on the unaccompanied cello suites, but alas, they are for late September. I might have to make do with some two part inventions.
We can't do the basement all at once. It's going to take a few weekends. We have made three trips to the storage place so far. Today, with Mary home sick, I did the next best thing--cleaned out bathroom drawers. That made me happy too, more like the third movement of K. 545, but still happy.
It's not that life is about stuff. It's the opposite. Life is about people and experiences. That's why we need to get the basement under control. The stuff is taking over. Maybe that is mixed up theology but it's where I am. Maybe it's a fantasy that the stuff will ever be under control leaving us free to plan meals for the homeless. Hope springs eternal.
I want to send my kids the message--if it's worth having it's worth taking care of. And. . . if it's not beautiful, useful or sentimental. . . it has to go. I promised them I would not sneak any of their toys into the good-will pile. Not that I have done this in the past. At least not very much. . . No one is immune. Bill is still a little sore about his Walmart wine glasses disappearing shortly after our wedding.
I intend to keep my promise this time. No stealth purging. In this small way I'm trying to put people first, while still protecting my own mental health! It might mean adding a little Gershwin to the mix, and I'm okay with that in moderation. But, rest assured. . I will get it done. Me and Kathy will get it done.
Happy Spring cleaning. . .
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