But wait, there's more

What a weekend! We were a flurry of activity. If we hadn't spent most of our time in the basement, where it's cool, we probably would have churned ourselves into a little pool of butter. (That's possibly a very age-specific reference; when I was a child in the 1960's,it was already pretty dicey).

It started with the realization that we had NOTHING scheduled all weekend. No religious school on Saturday. No family dinner on Sunday. No friends to see, no errands to run, no overage of work to get out of the way. And, now that Stella and Cindy clean our house for us every other week (making them eligible for beatification, in my opinion), we don't have to spend our free time vacuuming and scrubbing the toilets.

With such a bounty of time stretching ahead, I suggested to Henry that he make good on his promise to build some shelves at the bottom of the basement stairs. I need storage shelves because I now have five (5, yes, 5) sets of dishes, plus three extra sets of plates, for parties and such. We are not unusually sociable; our dish plethora just happened. Partly it's the result of the fact that Suzanne, my late mother-in-law, an inveterate collector of all kinds of things, had even more sets than that, and I ended up with a couple of them. Partly it's the result of getting married, and receiving a couple of sets as gifts. And partly it's a genetic thing, my mother tells me; people of British heritage just like dishes. That's another way of saying that my mom bought them for me.

While we were down in the basement measuring for the shelves, it became apparent that it would be a lot easier to build the shelves if the bikes were out of the way. So we (well, Henry) installed a rope and pulley and rack system in the ceiling for the bikes to hang from. They look great, moving through the air toward the wall.

Then we realized that it was too hard to find any nails or screws for the shelves, so we spent a couple of hours sorting them into little plastic drawers. At first we laboriously labelled the drawers ("molly bolts" "little bitty brads" "rubber washers"), which involved many, many reiterations of the following conversation: "What's this?" "That's a machine screw, just like the last one." "It's not just like the last one! It look totally different!" "Look, just finish the label, okay?"  Luckily, inspiration struck ("Ow!") and I got out the glue gun. A picture speaks louder than words, and an object itself speaks loudest of all.

Then it seemed like it would be a lot easier to cut the wood for the shelves if so much space on the work table weren't taken up by the 12-foot pieces of original trim, coated with cakey layers of lead paint, from the second floor. So I got out the Citrisolve and some rubber gloves and commenced to strippin'. That stuff really works, and you don't feel like your brain cells are expiring by the thousands as you inhale it. After I refinish the wood, I'll install where it belongs on the second floor, which will keep the rabbits from snacking on the plaster. (Don't ask, because I don't know.)

And while I was down there in the basement, I did six loads of laundry, ironed a bunch of linen napkins that have been sitting in a crumpled pile since the Cenozoic Era, used the hot iron and a thin spatula to take the price labels off a stack of antique opera libretti, sorted out bike parts into functional categories, made some broad bean stew with baby onions (in the kitchen, of course, but the beans were from the basement), and did a science experiment with Joe involving a boiled egg, a crayon, and a lot of vinegar (and while I was at it, I cleaned the drain with vinegar, baking soda, and boiling water).

The shelves haven't gotten started yet, but I'm glad to be at work today. I need a break.