Our house, built in 1942, has a tall, narrow, windowed attic we've never been in. There's a tiny crawlspace in the ceiling of a closet where the roof pitches so steeply I've never been able to conquor my claustrophobia sufficiently to get up there. And neither, I'm convinced has anyone else.
When we moved in, we popped our heads up there to look and we can see one lone box shoved up the hole and forgotten a million years ago. It might have guns or gold or the cure for cancer in it. Or 10,000 mouse turds. Or some age old pot.
Tonight, I think we're going to find out what's really there. Because today, the guys at Reed's company have a slow day, and he's ad hoc assigned a couple of them to come over and put in a pull down staircase for us.
I can't wait. Our closets are small. Our basement is damp. And we own too many books I simply can't part with. Bookshelf access is not critical. I can rotate things to and from the attic (and I will - you don't know me and my books) but consigning them to the inevitable mold of the basement is obscene and unthinkable.
It's good to be married to a guy with a construction company.
Posted by karen at September 28, 2004 03:34 PM