Just after E. was born, my dad brought allll these boxes of my old papers, books, toys, and artwork from the house where I grew up. He warned me that some of it was damaged from the fire, and I had been dreading sifting through it. I'm a terrible pack rat, and I was so much worse when I was young.

Digging into boxes of deteriorated junk is not fun. Why oh why would my dad think I would want my smoke-damaged, moldy stuffed animals?? Every tiny thing was still there. I remembered it all and was saddened at my ability to save so much fucking JUNK.

But then again, there were a few gems. I found a 6th grade report card, a grade school yearbook, a few pieces of fairly decent childish artwork, and some grandmotherly artifacts.

It felt very good to get rid of the junk, as it was doing nothing but growing moldy. The mold was soooo baaad. If I were allergic, I'd surely be dead. Much of it was black and furry and it wasn't supposed to be. I am feeling a little funny, knowing that I breathed in some of that. I know, I know, I should have worn a mask or something (if I've ruined my health please don't tell me), but somehow, it felt like...cheating. I felt like it was part of the process to breathe the dust of the past.

When I emerged from the basement, I felt like was stepping out of a time machine and back into the present.

C. was super-excited when he saw the progress I'd made. Sadly, it's not finished, but there's at least some hope that we might get to use the basement for a play area this winter! Hooray for us!