Excavating Typewriters, Day 1
I think I know how Indiana Jones felt, digging for buried treasure, or the Ark of the Covenant (okay, so he didn't dig for the Ark, but you get the idea.) I now know how archaeologists feel when they are sifting through layers of strata, trying to find that telltale piece of historical debris that will make all their work worth the effort.
I am attempting to dig my typewriters out of the Loft.
The Loft is a bit like Storage, in that it's just as much of a black hole. But Storage doesn't have raccoons, and the Loft did. They aren't there now, thank goodness, or I expect I wouldn't be here now, writing this.
The Loft is where broken TVs and clothes that are twenty years old go to die. Where bags and boxes of various things too good to toss but too bad to keep in the already cluttered house have been shoved, and over the years the layers have built up to epic proportions.
Since the typewriter market seems to be booming on ebay, I decided that I would cull some of my collection and only keep the ones I really wanted. I mean, I know I have four or five of the exact same typewriter, and do I really need four or five of the exact same typewriter? So I figured I would make a gallant attempt to dig them out and post some this weekend.
I thought I knew exactly where they were. See, a long time ago (I'm thinking about six years ago) I had my typewriters up in the Loft. But it was damp up in the Loft, and the cases were getting mildewed, so I asked Dad what I could do. He suggested that we put the typewriters inside one of the insulated plastic boxes he had up in the Loft until I moved out, and then I could take them with me.
And that's what I've thought we did, for all those years.
So tonight, I ventured up the rickety stairs, started moving boxes, battled through raccoon poop, and other nasty stuff, and managed to uncover the white box.
It was filled with clothes.
Clothes! From the 80s! ARGH! Dammit!
Dad thinks they're in one of the two metal trunks that sit on the other side of the white box. I hope to hell they are, because after enduring a shower of mummified raccoon poop falling all over my foot and probably breathing in enough icky crap to kill a person, I do not want to come up empty on this search.
Stay tuned for tomorrow's adventures, which will hopefully end in success...
I think I know how Indiana Jones felt, digging for buried treasure, or the Ark of the Covenant (okay, so he didn't dig for the Ark, but you get the idea.) I now know how archaeologists feel when they are sifting through layers of strata, trying to find that telltale piece of historical debris that will make all their work worth the effort.
I am attempting to dig my typewriters out of the Loft.
The Loft is a bit like Storage, in that it's just as much of a black hole. But Storage doesn't have raccoons, and the Loft did. They aren't there now, thank goodness, or I expect I wouldn't be here now, writing this.
The Loft is where broken TVs and clothes that are twenty years old go to die. Where bags and boxes of various things too good to toss but too bad to keep in the already cluttered house have been shoved, and over the years the layers have built up to epic proportions.
Since the typewriter market seems to be booming on ebay, I decided that I would cull some of my collection and only keep the ones I really wanted. I mean, I know I have four or five of the exact same typewriter, and do I really need four or five of the exact same typewriter? So I figured I would make a gallant attempt to dig them out and post some this weekend.
I thought I knew exactly where they were. See, a long time ago (I'm thinking about six years ago) I had my typewriters up in the Loft. But it was damp up in the Loft, and the cases were getting mildewed, so I asked Dad what I could do. He suggested that we put the typewriters inside one of the insulated plastic boxes he had up in the Loft until I moved out, and then I could take them with me.
And that's what I've thought we did, for all those years.
So tonight, I ventured up the rickety stairs, started moving boxes, battled through raccoon poop, and other nasty stuff, and managed to uncover the white box.
It was filled with clothes.
Clothes! From the 80s! ARGH! Dammit!
Dad thinks they're in one of the two metal trunks that sit on the other side of the white box. I hope to hell they are, because after enduring a shower of mummified raccoon poop falling all over my foot and probably breathing in enough icky crap to kill a person, I do not want to come up empty on this search.
Stay tuned for tomorrow's adventures, which will hopefully end in success...
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