©September 1998
Carol Jane Remsburg
PAK N STOR
R NOT US
There
is a building behind our tiny though newly expanded house that has been both a
boon and a bane over these many years.
It’s done a mean array of duties that even make her shingles frown. It’s our garage.
For
years I blissfully turned a blind eye and paid not an iota of attention to it
other than to park the car and hide out the castoffs that hadn’t yet ripened
into trash. However, these last few
years have been a decided wake up call.
For
the first year, not only were we sans child, but we were also sans much
clutter. That was before I really knew
how much of a pack rat my hubby was. To
him, this two-car garage plus workshop sold him on the property. It was easily as big as the house. It’s nice clean cement floors bespoke of
care and attention. The place had a
rather musty smell as all garages do, yet it was airy and tidy.
First
came the sad sack face. He had not
enough tools to fill it. So, armed with
the family Lowe’s card, and years of buying ahead of him, the walls literally
began to close in on me. There were
electric doors put in place, a dividing wall of the his and hers was installed
too. Somehow I ended up with all the
yard equipment, then an enormous shelf at the end of my space to house some of
his items with the lawn stuff tucked away beneath it. Still, my car fit, but it began to get a bit claustrophobic.
His
side, room for another vehicle and a workshop, began to take on the appearance
of the Yankee Workshop without the luster.
There were the odd extra shelves and cabinets that he put into service
when others didn’t want them any longer.
It was a real mishmash of styles, yet functional. An old refrigerator was installed, a
telephone extension, a good stereo, heat, and he even managed to string the
cable out there for television reception.
All he needed was a couch and he could almost live there. Eventually he did get a couch, but it didn’t
last long.
This
spot became my husband’s hideaway. It
was where he worked on projects for home and for others, usually others. It was where his buddies always congregated
and could enjoy the more relaxed standard than the “house” manners. For nearly two years, other than via the
intercom system, yeah, I forgot to mention that too, I didn’t see much of him.
By
then, “my” side of the garage was gone.
The car had lost her home and was then left to the elements. I came home one day and there were supplies
for a “job” that were where my car was supposed to be. It was going to rain later, he explained, so
they had to be inside. I shrugged it
off at the time. The car never made it
back under shelter.
Then
something quite strange began to happen.
Family members and friends one after another began to move and would
“temporarily” need a place to house some of their precious items. After 10 or so months, we knew the stuff
wasn’t that precious to them. Sometimes it took more than several calls to
have the visiting mess excised from our own.
Our
all time storage winner was over two
years. Our surprise was when they
brought the extras. Sometimes we
received special gifts—like their weekly trash. There were several bags, neatly wrapped, the clear kind so you
know what’s inside. There would be the
prerequisite eggshells and coffee grounds, dinner leavings, empty cans, and the
telltale junk mail. At least we knew
then “Whodunit.” Granted, it had gotten
a little cramped in there, but a dumpsite it wasn’t—yet!
More
years passed, the alien visitation finally ceased. However by that time, we had no room for others. We had too much stuff ourselves. After 12 years, the poor garage stood
bulging at her restless seams. Then we
got the bright idea to renovate the house and add rooms. So you know we shuffled nearly everything
mobile and mostly necessary to our favorite hiding place. The exodus began in early October of last
year. When Christmas came and we could
once again almost live in the house,
many items found their way back, but not all.
Winter passed into Spring and Summer when we could finally finish up the porch and a few other areas when time and monies permitted. Still, the garage was a bulging, bloated bomb about to labor forth some kind of hideous mutant of all our belongings. It was then Hubby knew we must move on it or something really bad was going to happen. The 10-yard dumpster was at the ready. He also knew this would be the first day I’d have to relax in over a month, but he niggled me about it the day before, “Just an hour or so,” he said. He also said it with that smirky little smile of his. He knew he had me and I couldn’t refuse for the kind of guilt he can mete out just can’t be born.
After
coffee, the very early morning kind, we trudged out into the oppressive
humidity to face the unfaceable. For
me, unless it’s a family heirloom or I have a real attachment of sentimental
value on an item, then it’s history.
Still vaguely serviceable shoes and old sweaters, frayed sheets,
blankets, and towels, the aging toys of great and small, unique appliances
(like the food dehydrator and juicer) that my spouse once espoused, hit the
pile in a frenzy. Even with his face
now pale from the trauma of withdrawal, he wouldn’t let me quit. That “hour or so” grew and blossomed until
it ate most of the day. By nearing 3
PM, I couldn’t hack the heat any longer.
We’d finally cleared out my
side of the garage and made a slight venue into his. The dumpster burped
twice and leveled out as we “racked and stacked” (Hubby’s term).
I
had become a melting blob of odiferous sweat from the pitching, evicting, and
sweeping up. Air actually had begun to
circulate again in that old garage taking with it that malevolent atmosphere of
pending doom. The ticking had
stopped. The bomb was no longer. Oh, there will be another foray out there to
make his little hideaway homey
again, but that’ll wait another week.
Now, the only ticking comes from the dumpster man who measures his $2
days a wait until he can feast upon the weight of his prize.
Yeah,
the garage will finally house my car once again, but for how long? This place will never, ever become a Pak N Stor. So, if anybody’s moving, just remember we don’t really live here
and we don’t have a garage either. I
simply can’t afford the fees.