Renovation uncovers lost treasures
"I've been looking for that," I told Bubba, who was pitching a large number of items down from the garage attic. Don't ask me why I had a 6-foot-6, 275-pound guy crawling around in the attic instead of myself.
It's probably because he's in his thirties, while I'm 20 years older.
"What?" he said, sticking his head down through the ceiling's attic door.
I looked at his upside-down head and held up the green fish stringer that had fallen from the pocket of a limp, worn float tube.
"This is my favorite stringer," I said. "I had it when I was a kid."
Without response, the head disappeared and electrical wire began to unravel from the coil at my feet.
I was only halfway inspired by the task of renovating my garage. Everything from two makeshift walls of shelves was piled into the middle of it. Before long, a mountain of outdoor gear and tools had descended from the attic and was rising to nearly head high.
The pile of waterproof boots, fishing rods, flyrods, tackle boxes, power tools, file drawers full of paperwork, camping supplies, gallons and gallons of leftover paint, about a million cans of spray paint, a box of silicone caulking, bricks, books, more books and a lot more books was almost overwhelming.
The War Department stood beside the pile.
"This is just too much," she said.
I turned to look at her and stepped on a large piece of bubble wrap. The resulting explosions and pops generated an interesting response from the attic.
"Jeeze! What was that?" Bubba asked in a panic. "Did you do that? Was that electricity? I thought we turned the breaker off up here!" Several heavy thuds were followed by momentary silence.
"You still alive?" I called through the open attic door.
"I thought I was dead real fast. Y'all don't be making any sudden noises until I'm finished with this. Electricity scares me."
I turned to the War Department. "Don't let it get to you," I said, then turned when my eye caught a glimpse of something interesting. "Hey, cool. I've been looking for that."
I picked up a knife sharpener we'd misplaced when we moved into the house 10 years ago.
"You should have organized this right after we moved in," she said.
"I tried to," I said, ignoring the loud overhead thud. "But those other shelves were only supposed to be temporary."
"You should throw those boxes of books away," she said, pointing to several large boxes of paperbacks.
Another overhead thud. I wondered if Bubba heard the outrageous comment. "These books are worth some money," I said. "They're first-edition paperbacks."
"Sell them."
A soft overhead scream.
"You don't sell books like this."
A soft explosion of expletives.
"You haven't read them since we were married."
"Reading them lessens the value ... hey, I've been looking for this," I said and held up a brand new gun-cleaning kit. It was covered in dust. "See, I've saved money today. I won't have to buy a new cleaning kit."
She looked toward the driveway at a stack of new shelving, paint, fluorescent lights, cabinets, tool chests and paint locker. "Yep, you're really saving money, bud."
An extremely long pair of legs appeared on the ladder. Bubba descended. Sweat made rivulets on his dusty face. "Reach over there and flip on the breaker. You have electricity over on that wall now, and we can move the refrigerator."
"You flip the breaker," I said, edging away from the potentially lethal box.
"Hey, I've been looking for that," Bubba said and reached into the large pile, emerging with a handful of thin, worn yearbooks. "These are the ones you did when I was a kid."
Bubba was a student of mine back in the early 1980s. When I first saw the skinny kid with a head he hadn't grown into, I didn't know he'd eventually be in one of my classes.
He and the War Department lost themselves in the 26-year-old yearbooks. She shrieked in laughter when he showed her a photo of me without a mustache. They made fun of my clothes, my long hair, my youthful appearance.
I leaned over and flipped the breaker to get some relief.
The radio came back on, and the new fluorescent garage lights flickered to life, illuminating the plate containing the tuna salad I'd misplaced at lunch.
"I've been looking for that," I said and ate the still cold sandwich while another item caught my eye. "Hey, my 12-volt filet knife. I've been looking for that."
"Can I have it?" Bubba asked. Since it was still in the package, I handed it to him and dove back into the pile.
"Hey, I've been looking for that," the War Department said.
"What?"
"Your enthusiasm for getting this garage clean," she said and went back into the house.
• Reavis Wortham's e-mail address is r.wortham@tx.rr.com.
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