I have spent time each day recently sorting out "stuff" in the basement. I've collected mostly junk for many years. I'm one of those people who never throws anything away unless it is absolutely worn out beyond repair of broken is so many ways none of it is salvageable - even for some weird craft project that could present itself in the future. Things like buttons, scraps of cloth, tiny screws, nails, washers, and yes, even string, all saved. Because everyone knows that as soon as you have tossed something out, you're going to want it. It's always gratifying to be able to find something in my collections that is just right to fix some unexpected emergency. But now I'm finding I need to throw away things like ballpoint pens that have dried up, or little tubes of oil paint that are rock hard. I have tried to resurrect little bottles of watercolor paints, but apparently there's a point of no return, even with that! Along the way I'm finding treasures that I'd forgotten, or little parts of some toy that my kids played with or was even from my childhood, and those make me smile. Then I'm glad I kept that bit of my past.

Part of my reorganizing efforts today was going through bits of sewing materials that had been collecting on my work table for literally years. Sometimes I begin a project but either lose interest or something more important takes over and I simply don't get back to it. I'm sorting through that stuff and forcing myself to relegate much of it either to my rag bag or the trash bag. Then there are the piles to be donated. I had laundered some curtains and they needed a little ironing before I packed them up to donate this morning, and while I was ironing, I was thinking about the young man, I think he was from Montpelier, who was camping at Joe's Pond one summer in the 1920s. He was getting ready to go to a dance or some other social gathering, and was ironing his clothing with a gasoline-fueled flat rion. He tried to refill the iron when it was still very hot and the gasoline exploded, setting the cottage (and him) on fire. He jumped into the water, and then went back and was able to put out the fire. I think I am remembering that story correctly - it was from our research for the West Danville history book. This morning I was thinking what it must have been like to use a gasoline-heated iron! Could there be anything more dangerous? 

I also came upon a framed poem I had forgotten about. It's called, "An Ode To My Guests."

AN ODE TO MY GUESTS

Having you visit is a joy and a treasure.

I want you to know it’s been a real pleasure.

So do come back, but before you take wing,

Please strip the bed and remake the darned thing.

There’s a laundry in the basement two floors below—

You’ll find soap in the dresser where the clean sheets go.

And please remember your towels and dishes;

That you wash them and store them, is what my wish is.

Asking you to do maid service indeed was inspired

By the years taking their toll – I’m now “retired.”