The Shelving is Failing Again

It's happening again, folks. No, I don't mean the country going to hell in a handbasket, I mean my office. What with company all summer in the attic guest room and the consequent relocation of bushel baskets full of mysterious stuff, my poor office kind of turned into what they used to call in the British cozy whodunits the lumber room. Not like the lumber they have in the lumberyard, but stuff. At least I have it separated into logical piles: genealogical stuff, writing career stuff (alas, a dwindling pile), stuff from the past—my past, various family members' pasts—stuff you can use to make movies, since I always planned to make a movie sometime, other stuff that might come in handy any day now. My mother's old immigration documents. The video camera before last. My tenth grade report card. All stories for another day.

Because the story for today is the sad story of my little office, and how the final thing happened that makes it useless as an office until I change all the furniture around again. While I was sitting at the polls on Tuesday Harold got in there to winterize my office window. While there he noticed that the bracket supports holding up the Great Bookshelves are pulling away from the wall. Little powdery crumbs of plaster are dribbling out of the screw holes.

You will recall (or not) that last spring—I think it was last spring—the shelves where I put all my sewing manuals, thread, and little boxes of sewing tools took a dive into the middle of the sewing area of the attic. The gremlins of shelving, having trashed the attic, are now at work on my office. At any moment the whole thing could come down with a terrible crash. This time I'll be looking out for it, so when the crash comes I can begin to pick up the pieces, instead of ignoring it in the belief that the racket was caused by our neighbor hitting the sauce again.

But, no! The shelves shall not fall. This time I vow be proactive. Harold suggested that I take everything off the sagging shelves and put it in cardboard boxes until we figure out something else. A good first step, I thought, but, since I hate cardboard boxes, a better first step would be to go online and order new shelving, something that will stand up by itself without having to be screwed by my incompetent hands to the wavy plaster of the wall.

So I did this. Today the delivery man left two tall packages marked "heavy" on the front porch. Harold carried them indoors, but not upstairs, since several days of prep work on the office will be required before it's time to unpack the new shelves.

Onward and upward! As for writing anything, it may be awhile. If you're doing NaNoWriMo, strength to your arm. I'm looking at, oh, I don't know, some time after New Year's before I can sit down in my office and put finger to keyboard. Because there's also the matter of replacing the desk and dealing with the stuff all over the floor.

© 2014 Kate Gallison

Crash

Disaster has struck our household. In a small way, I hasten to add, not like having a fire, or an auto wreck, or a major illness, but mini-disaster. Which is to say, two shelves which I personally installed in the attic/guest room/sewing studio years ago, screwing them firmly, as I thought, into the joists, have torn themselves free from the wall and flung themselves clear across the alcove.

I heard it happen, last week in the middle of a Thursday afternoon. I just didn't know what it was. You know the sound—a thousand pounds of books plunging to the floor, buckets of buttons rattling and rolling, the tinkle and crunch of broken glassware. Or maybe you don't know the sound. Maybe you've been lucky. Maybe your shelves always remain attached to your walls and your bookcases hold together in one piece at all times. May they ever continue so.

Anyway I heard it, that dreadful sound, and my first thought was that a bookshelf had let go in the upstairs front room, which we call the library (although it's where we keep the TV). I rushed to see, but all seemed calm. The cat still lounged undisturbed in the window. She gave me one of those looks, as if to say, "What?" No books had fallen. I called downstairs to Harold, and all was well with him. I thought, "It must be the neighbors again." Things have been tense over there in recent weeks, with slamming of doors and banging of furniture. Our common wall is made of cardboard. Surely it was them. And so I forgot about it.

Forgot about it, that is, until last night just before bed, when I found myself in need of a fresh topsheet and wandered drowsily up to the attic to find one. Quel horrible surprise. The shelves were flung every which way. My sewing books, as Captain Aubrey would say, were all ahoo. Cast carelessly about in the wrack of buttons and sewing tools were the toys I let the kids play with last New Year's Eve. Never picked them up. I don't go up there often.

The impression I got from the scene was one of great violence. In my sleepy state I could think of nothing but evil ghosts. Someone once told me that my attic was haunted by a malevolent spirit. I don't really believe that, certainly not in the daylight, but at half-past the hour when I normally go to sleep it seemed like a plausible idea. I ran downstairs, closed the attic door firmly after myself, and had hysterics all over Harold.

Harold promised to help me with the problem. Now he has taken an interest in the stuff that's scattered all over the attic. This morning we went to Staples and bought a set of ten cardboard storage boxes. He's going to sort my things, he says. My God, he'll put my stuff away where I'll never find it again. Excuse me. I have to go take care of this before he gets home from work. Or before the sun goes down.

© 2014 Kate Gallison