First, a warning. Those of you who live above clean cement basements where the kids watch widescreen TV will be appalled by this story. And if you are grossed out by dead or smelly things, skip this one.
Yesterday we unearthed the crawlspace below the bedroom. But the day wasn’t going so well even before we got to that part. Rebecca and I have been spending virtually 24 hours a day together for the over three months, and overall, we’ve been thoroughly enjoying each others company. But some days, we have different opinions about every stupid little thing.
Yesterday was one of those days. We argued about whether we should leave the pile of roofing boards on the ground, or put it in the back of Black Beauty (the pickup truck for those of you who haven’t been following every detail of our lives). We argued over whether the cracked bay window would make a good cold frame. About whether we should keep it or dumpster it. About where it should go. Our disagreements usually have the underlying theme of efficiency versus quality, and on those off-days we judge each other mercilessly for the opposing stances that we take. Of course, when we can balance each other on the center point of that seesaw, it’s a winning combination. If either of us were to win all the time, we would have either a perfect house that never got finished or a crappy house that got done in record time.
Wanting to win the argument is a bad strategy. Because then you’re stuck with a loser. But it’s one of those stinky aspects of human nature, one that usually lays underground until you’re with someone you know well enough that you can be your worst self. When it finally comes up, it smells bad. Kind of like the dead skunk that we discovered under the bedroom floor.
We’ve been working long, hard days for the past three days- getting the roof and walls off of the back portion of the house and the floorboards up before the big snow that we knew would come last night. Putting ourselves on an early-to-work schedule has probably contributed to our general grumpiness. And we knew that whatever was under those floorboards, it wasn’t going to be pretty.
The embarrassing part of all this is that we knew- knew in a way that is all too easy to forget. The scuttling sounds that lulled us to sleep were frequent enough that they became normal. But once or twice a year, we’d be woken in the night with anguished squeals coming from under the floor, followed by the thick, musty stench of angry skunk. We’d mumble something about ‘there’s that skunk again’, and go back to sleep. But the smell would hang in the air for a couple of days before settling back down to smolder in the odd collection of insulative things that Rebecca stuffed into the 18” crawlspace many years ago. We never knew if these annual skirmishes were raccoons killing a cluster of shrieking skunk babies, or if skunks were invading the raccoon hideout. Or maybe it was a domestic spat in the skunk family. But the final evidence of dead skunk suggests that in the end, the raccoons won.
I have utmost appreciation for the fact that Rebecca took on the task of bagging up all the mess. She must have felt somewhat responsible since she was the one who stuffed all those things in there in the first place. In her elbow-high yellow rubber gloves, her green kneepads, her respirator with the pink filters, and her rocket scientist safety glasses, she looked like she was headed into the plutonium room at Rocky Flats. She pulled up huge wads of chewed up pink and yellow fiberglass, a shredded sleeping bag, and six enormous, unexplainably heavy couch cushions. There was a desiccated skunk with a fluffy black and white tail that was attached to an unrecognizable black mummy of a body. There were piles of raccoon shit, a rusty can that had been opened with two nail holes, and a crushed pie plate. It was unbelievably disgusting. But even more disturbing was the realization that for twelve years, all that separated our sleeping bodies from this mass of filth were floorboards, carpet, the collection of rollerblades, river gear, sleeping bags, and boots that were stuffed in the not-to-be-wasted storage space under the bed, and one six inch mattress.
Is there a metaphor lurking here? About the rotten, invisible stuff in relationships that we choose to sweep under the floorboards? Let’s not even go there. I prefer to think that rather than a metaphor, it’s a simple matter of cause and effect. I once read that clutter under your bed can keep you from getting pregnant. I don’t think it was the clutter that kept either of us from that fate, but if clutter under your bed has that kind of effect, what horrible influence could piles of raccoon shit have on one’s matrimonial relationship? Seems like if that led to some minor judgments and a few useless power struggles, we’d be getting off easy.
Those of you who are judging us as backwoods hillbillies living in piles of filth can pause now to generate some empathy. Yes, we knew something bad was going on under there, but what could we do? Wiggling on our bellies into the crawlspace was unthinkable, and besides, once we were face to face with the skunk or the raccoons, what would we do? Shoving a trap underneath the house would lead to a whole different set of problems once we had to deal with a wild animal in a trap. Poison was just too violent a solution. So we put up with the occasional gassings, and forgot about it the rest of the time.
But the question remains- can we blame the everyday struggles of an 18-year relationship on the bad feng shui of putrid filth under the bed? I’d like to think so. Because although it has taken us twelve years and a major production for the past three months, the problem has been eradicated. The dead skunk is in a black plastic bag at the bottom of the dumpster. And we are looking forward to a sealed, rodent-proof cement basement, and under our bed a clean space with solar heat radiating from the floorboards. Who knows? Maybe we’ll even get pregnant.
Yesterday we unearthed the crawlspace below the bedroom. But the day wasn’t going so well even before we got to that part. Rebecca and I have been spending virtually 24 hours a day together for the over three months, and overall, we’ve been thoroughly enjoying each others company. But some days, we have different opinions about every stupid little thing.
Yesterday was one of those days. We argued about whether we should leave the pile of roofing boards on the ground, or put it in the back of Black Beauty (the pickup truck for those of you who haven’t been following every detail of our lives). We argued over whether the cracked bay window would make a good cold frame. About whether we should keep it or dumpster it. About where it should go. Our disagreements usually have the underlying theme of efficiency versus quality, and on those off-days we judge each other mercilessly for the opposing stances that we take. Of course, when we can balance each other on the center point of that seesaw, it’s a winning combination. If either of us were to win all the time, we would have either a perfect house that never got finished or a crappy house that got done in record time.
Wanting to win the argument is a bad strategy. Because then you’re stuck with a loser. But it’s one of those stinky aspects of human nature, one that usually lays underground until you’re with someone you know well enough that you can be your worst self. When it finally comes up, it smells bad. Kind of like the dead skunk that we discovered under the bedroom floor.
We’ve been working long, hard days for the past three days- getting the roof and walls off of the back portion of the house and the floorboards up before the big snow that we knew would come last night. Putting ourselves on an early-to-work schedule has probably contributed to our general grumpiness. And we knew that whatever was under those floorboards, it wasn’t going to be pretty.
The embarrassing part of all this is that we knew- knew in a way that is all too easy to forget. The scuttling sounds that lulled us to sleep were frequent enough that they became normal. But once or twice a year, we’d be woken in the night with anguished squeals coming from under the floor, followed by the thick, musty stench of angry skunk. We’d mumble something about ‘there’s that skunk again’, and go back to sleep. But the smell would hang in the air for a couple of days before settling back down to smolder in the odd collection of insulative things that Rebecca stuffed into the 18” crawlspace many years ago. We never knew if these annual skirmishes were raccoons killing a cluster of shrieking skunk babies, or if skunks were invading the raccoon hideout. Or maybe it was a domestic spat in the skunk family. But the final evidence of dead skunk suggests that in the end, the raccoons won.
I have utmost appreciation for the fact that Rebecca took on the task of bagging up all the mess. She must have felt somewhat responsible since she was the one who stuffed all those things in there in the first place. In her elbow-high yellow rubber gloves, her green kneepads, her respirator with the pink filters, and her rocket scientist safety glasses, she looked like she was headed into the plutonium room at Rocky Flats. She pulled up huge wads of chewed up pink and yellow fiberglass, a shredded sleeping bag, and six enormous, unexplainably heavy couch cushions. There was a desiccated skunk with a fluffy black and white tail that was attached to an unrecognizable black mummy of a body. There were piles of raccoon shit, a rusty can that had been opened with two nail holes, and a crushed pie plate. It was unbelievably disgusting. But even more disturbing was the realization that for twelve years, all that separated our sleeping bodies from this mass of filth were floorboards, carpet, the collection of rollerblades, river gear, sleeping bags, and boots that were stuffed in the not-to-be-wasted storage space under the bed, and one six inch mattress.
Is there a metaphor lurking here? About the rotten, invisible stuff in relationships that we choose to sweep under the floorboards? Let’s not even go there. I prefer to think that rather than a metaphor, it’s a simple matter of cause and effect. I once read that clutter under your bed can keep you from getting pregnant. I don’t think it was the clutter that kept either of us from that fate, but if clutter under your bed has that kind of effect, what horrible influence could piles of raccoon shit have on one’s matrimonial relationship? Seems like if that led to some minor judgments and a few useless power struggles, we’d be getting off easy.
Those of you who are judging us as backwoods hillbillies living in piles of filth can pause now to generate some empathy. Yes, we knew something bad was going on under there, but what could we do? Wiggling on our bellies into the crawlspace was unthinkable, and besides, once we were face to face with the skunk or the raccoons, what would we do? Shoving a trap underneath the house would lead to a whole different set of problems once we had to deal with a wild animal in a trap. Poison was just too violent a solution. So we put up with the occasional gassings, and forgot about it the rest of the time.
But the question remains- can we blame the everyday struggles of an 18-year relationship on the bad feng shui of putrid filth under the bed? I’d like to think so. Because although it has taken us twelve years and a major production for the past three months, the problem has been eradicated. The dead skunk is in a black plastic bag at the bottom of the dumpster. And we are looking forward to a sealed, rodent-proof cement basement, and under our bed a clean space with solar heat radiating from the floorboards. Who knows? Maybe we’ll even get pregnant.
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1 comment:
Great blog, Laura. I hope to see some hammer-based poetry constructed too, with lots of metaphor and an occasional expletive. Good luck!
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