I think this will be the last week of vacationing from my column—stop sighing with relief. Everyone needs a break every now and again and I try to work one in as much as possible by following the advice of my father. (We shall save that for another time.)
Moving along, I found a piece from AGES ago—I think this must have been from maybe 2010 or 11 but am not super sure. It was right after Aunt Liz (AL) had moved in here and she remained until 2014 is all I can recall. I can never remember if she stayed here for three or four years but I think she subscribes to the paper and has it delivered to her in Greenville. Perhaps she will telephone me and let me know?
Without bloviating any further, here is the column from sometime after 2010 but not after 2014. How's that? I'm going to correct some mistakes too since I know you keep track of this jazz.
Ever since Judith M. Villeneuve of Maine has been checking my work I have become “comma conscious.” She used to have to purge them madly from my pieces but I think I'm beginning to catch on to this, at long last. (I just HAD to use one there for dramatic pause.)
The true focal point
>of the home
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.
Our little abode has been brimming with activity due to the joyous arrival of a new household member. 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 that 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. However, 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. Bottom line is those ancestors of mine decided to put ONE closet in this joint—ONE—to save a few bucks!
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 I think 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. 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 but instead 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.
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 an area 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 some loose thingamajigs might be hitting an empty box that once contained a deck of cards—just for ONE example.
Let loose from your tidy and orderly lifestyles! Forget the family table and just gather everyone around the true “nerve center of the home” which is indeed the family JUNK DRAWER.
THE END (Interstate Crosscheck, AIPAC, Geoengineering, War is a Racket by General Smedley Butler)
PS WOW I bet you a dime that I removed at least 25 commas!!