Possumblog

Good news, bad news sort of things.

Good news? I can park the Focus in the garage!

Bad news? As predicted, I feel as though I have been beaten with a shovel!

My big plan of pulling everything out of the garage onto the driveway was a bit overambitious, but we did manage to get the side closest to the kitchen door cleaned out, and the other side, although still pretty packed, at least has the advantage of having been neatened up a bit.

Final tally--twelve cardboard boxes of articles taken to the thrift store, along with a circa 1989 fax machine, an inoperative plastic laminator, a wooden hutch, and a small sleeper loveseat that had at one time been in a dorm at UAB, was then sold for a dollar as surplus, wound up in Reba's office when she was working at the daycare, then has sat for the past six years in our garage, where it became home to (from all appearances) a huge gang of filthy mice, thus completing the circle of repulsiveness. In addition to the things that can be deducted from the tax bill, there were also three garbage cans full of stuff.

The time involved? Well, first I had to run to the store for some groceries, and after that, we got started in earnest around 10:30. I finally ate supper at 8:00 that evening. In between was constant motion, including the necessity of toting massive amounts of heavy iron objects. My father was a welder, and quite a craftsman--he made mailbox posts, and sets of andirons, and jack stands for cars, and wood splitting wedges. Literally tons of stuff. And a lot of it is stored all around our garage. I can't bear to part with it, since the things he made remind me of him, and they give me some comfort as I look at them and remember back. But, I do sort of wish he'd been a craftsman in lightweight foam, because these solid steel things sure are cumbersome. Then there are the various tools of the ironsmith's trade that I've moved around to three different houses, including one bench vise that probably weighs close to eighty pounds. Just can't bear to part with that, either.

One thing I finally did let go of were the old set of hoses and regulators I had kept that were his. I really don't know why those held so much import to me--he taught me to weld, both gas and electric, but only in the most basic sense, so it's not like I would ever have been able to make a living doing it, or actually even be able to make any kind of repairs for which I would be willing to stake my life. But, I still kept the nasty old hose and junk around in a big box in the floor. I hauled those off Saturday as well. I had a pang of doubt, and thought maybe I should have at least tried to sell them, but in the end, I was just tired enough not to worry about it. Into the van they went, and to the thrift store with the other collected bricabrac.

I will say that a garage cleaning does tend to be quite a draw to the curious. I was deep in the middle of hauling stuff out when a car pulled up at the curb. Reba had come into the garage and I asked if she knew who it was, and she didn't. The car door opened, and some dark-haired woman got out and started walking up the driveway, slowly perusing our junk. "Can I help you ma'am?"

"I'm just looking."

"Uh, well, we're not having a garage sale--I'm just trying to get my garage cleaned out."

"Oh. Sorry."

I could tell she was disappointed.

Anyway, after a long hard day of lifting barges and toting bales, we finally did get anough jetsam cleared out to be able to park Reba's car inside. This is a rare occurence--we've lived there about eight years now, and for the vast majority of that time, the garage has been too filled up to get a vehicle in. When we moved from the last house, we did it in such a rushed manner that we never really did move in, we just moved. The stuff that got put in the garage never did get put away properly, and it's been accumulating ever since. So, it was nice to finally be able to use the space as intended, rather than as a ministorage unit. I might even get energetic and clean out the other side next weekend.

If I can get over being sore.

Posted by Terry Oglesby at April 24, 2006 07:44 AM