My Loft

I need to tidy up the organized chaos in my loft. On the surface is everything that no one knows where to put--luggage, camping gear, holiday decorations, wrapping paper, children's memorabilia, broken furniture, computer cords, and old bank statements. Underneath is my bookstore, which is now closed because I am going on vacation.

Every six months, I make an effort to find a place for everything and put everything in its place. But some things just won't be put away. Like the blue & gray stoneware bowl that my husband loves. We got it at our landlord's yard sale. My husband doesn't know that. He thinks it's a family heirloom. The bowl is too big to use for serving food and too small to use as a swimming pool. There's no way to store it, so I finally put it on top of the kitchen cabinets where it's supposed to look like decor, but doesn't match anything else on display. I've tried to give it to the Salvation Army three times, but as soon as it goes to the trunk of my car, my husband goes on alert.

"You can't give that away!"

"Why not?"

"Because I like it!"

"What are we going to use it for?"

"I don't know. Something."

"What?"

"It's special."

"Why?

"I don't know. I just like it. Please keep it."

I have to get a chair and climb up on the fridge to put it back.

Then there's my "special papers." These are not deeds, titles, contracts, wills, or journals. These papers are cute sayings, inspirational stories, classroom handouts, and refrigerator mementos that I can't throw away. They are not filed because I don't know how to categorize them. I haven't read them since the first time, but I'm planning on using them for a speech I might give someday. Or I might need them to inspire someone else. If I throw them away, I'll never, ever remember what they said.

And, of course, there's my Christmas Countdown Santa statue. He was so cute on the Wal-Mart aisle. So hard to store after the holidays. His arms are too wide for a bin; his belly is too fat for the box he came in. No shelf is tall enough. He gets knicked when I lay him flat. He just stands in the corner all year -- I think his 25-day countdown should be extended to 365 since he has no place to go!

At least one day out of the year, the loft looks pretty good. I can walk in a straight line without stepping over something. That's also the day when someone calls and says, "I used to have . . . Do you know where it is, Mom?"