I think I’ve finally conjured up some creative juices this time, and will not have to rely on the infamous vault to bail me out again.

The spotlight of this column will eventually shine brightly on an item which I’ve discovered to be the glue that holds us all together under this chaotic roof of ours.

First, I have to stick with the obligatory 713 word background story, or intro, that now defines me as a Pulitzer Prize winning columnist—Yes, my meds are kicking in, and thank you for asking.

Our little abode has been brimming with activity, due to the joyous arrival of a new household member. So, I thought I’d chatter a bit about something I’ve determined during the course of raking out rooms and purging corners of ten-year-old filth. (Right about now, Mother is truly appalled.)

Wait—you didn’t think that I gave birth, or anything as crazed as that, did you? Good gravy. When I say, “new household member,” I’m speaking of the wayward widow we plucked from the depths of loneliness and despair, and forced, at butter knife point, to pull up a couch.

The boring reality of it all is this. We’ve added yet another sardine to our tin by opening up our crib to a woman named Aunt Liz. It’s as simple as that. There was no despair. There might have been a touch of loneliness. She isn’t our real aunt, although we’ve called her one for years, but, she is a widow. (See, I wasn’t exaggerating that much after all.)

We all take up residence right across the yard from my favorite mother. That statement reminds me that even though her house is quite roomy, and ours is a shoe box, she refuses to switch. I will explore that in another piece, which will certainly bring nothing but utter delight to that darling woman.

Anyhow, Aunt Liz and I have been tackling the never-ending chore of cleaning out drawers, moving shelves about, switching this for that, pushing the other into a different room and, basically, making sure that the child is thoroughly confused every time he exits his room.

I’m sure this will hit close to home for most woman readers as, let’s face it, men wouldn’t cleanse a drawer, for any reason under the sun—unless it had a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue buried at the bottom.

Not only is our house cramped, or “cozy,” if you are dealing with a real estate agent, but, when my wonderful grandparents rolled out the blueprints, they did so whilst clinging to their wallets with such force, that I think grandpa was buried with permanent fingertip bruises.

In other words, price WAS an option. Therefore, those ancestors of mine decided to put ONE closet in this joint. ONE.

Now, although this is a pocket-sized-pad, the rooms are very large. For instance, you would not believe all of the dressers, desks, end tables, television stands, chairs, and the like, that fit in our bedroom.

I’ve actually lost Perpetual (fiance) in there a few times so, you get the picture. (He was found wedged safely between a rocking chair and a book shelf—don’t ask.

You can imagine that Aunt Liz and I had our work cut out for us because, with all those additional desks, chests of drawers, and such, came the added tasks of sprucing them all up, to the max.

I have finally reached the point in this nonsensical editorial at which I shall declare my unabashed adoration for something located in our runty residence. I speak of none other than the junk drawer.

Let me tell you, I am suspicious of anyone who does not have one of these litter bins in his or her living space.

To me, the junk drawer is the backbone of the dwelling. It’s the adhesive that binds the clan together. It’s the sanity in a sea of delirium. I can barely describe my innermost and absolute affection for my rummage receptacle.

I’m telling you that the measure of a real close-knit-related-group-of-people, is not calculated by how many times they gather for those over-rated family dinners. Rather, it is truly gauged by how much emphasis they direct toward their drawers of junk.

I’m not talking about one of those well organized catch-all chambers either. That is absolutely out of the question. There is no sense in having a little divided deal that keeps thumb tacks in one compartment, and twist-ties in another. It’s simply not socially acceptable in this home.

The core of the family, aka the junk drawer, must be packed to the gills with everything from rubber bands, to an object which might fit with another thing, that could be located in the garage under the other doohickey.

So, there you have it. Whilst Aunt Liz and I were working magic by attempting to reorganize a few thousand items, the junk drawer was our saving grace. When in doubt, an item was pitched into said drawer without a fuss.

Actually, I confess that our new tenant decided to launder my beloved drawer and I only allowed slight alterations. For example, I let her bring the count of loose toothpicks down from a few hundred thousand, to maybe fifty plus. Other than that, I forbade her from going any further on her quest to neaten up the true focus of the home.

For all of you dear readers who do not have such a place for displaced items, just try it. I guarantee you will have a delightfully refreshing outlook on life, just knowing that there is an area within your domicile in which cleanliness is not next to godliness.

For instance, you will come to realize that there is no need to fret about batteries, that haven’t worked since the Ford Administration, bumping about in some dusty debris catcher.

You will feel invigorated when you wholly accept the fact that, indeed, there is no cause for alarm just because there are some loose thingamajigs, from clothes pins, that are brushing against an empty box, which once contained a deck of cards.

Let loose from your tidy and orderly lifestyles. Forget the family table, and just gather everyone around the true “nerve center of the home,” the family junk drawer.

The End.