The Basement

     “It’s ugly!  It’s depressing.”

      Cobwebs cling to the open 2X10 floor joists. You never get them all.  Romex, copper and plastic pipes snake across the “ceiling” beneath the joists.  I've been in high class restaurants where such a "ceiling" is called ambience and it adds $50 to $100 to your bill.

     The uncovered cement floor reflects the aesthetics of any garage.  But seeing the floor is a bit of a problem.  The floor is covered with “stuff” except for the major walkways and the sitting area in front of the wood burning stove.

     Describing the “stuff” that clings to our lives and the floor would be tedious.  So “one picture is worth a thousand words.”

     Note:  the “stuff” here is my stuff.  It takes up a relatively small portion of the basement.  My stuff is the acme of the tip of the iceberg.  Because my desire is to protect the Goodwife from the indignities of a homicide investigation, I have determined that the iceberg must remain submerged in murky waters.  So, imagine a man on top of a boxcar with a probe in hand.  He jams the probe through the access in the top of the car down to the floor of the car, twists the handle to open the probe gates, twists again to close the probe gates, removes the probe and empties its contents into a can.  He has a sample.  Consider the above photos to be a sample, not the whole box car load.

       In the cold weather, I build a fire, grab a cup of tea and sit in front of the stove.  A high back office chair with arms suits my back.  It’s probably ugly, too, but it fits right in with the décor.  I can sit there quite a while without wearing out, like you do on a kitchen chair.

     I usually start the day there, and end the day there.  Since there is no ceiling to contend with, my neck traction device hangs directly above the chair.  It’s remarkable how fifteen minutes in traction relaxes you and straightens out the day’s stress.  I haven’t been to a chiropractor since I began “hanging” myself.

     Note:  That’s not a selfie.  The fire extinguisher sat in for me.

     I can haul wood to the stove without worrying about what I’m doing to the floor.  If my shoes have a little dirt on them, oh well.  Thirty seconds with the broom and dust pan takes care of the wood crumbs and the dirt.

       You can drink a glass of wine or eat down there without fear of spilling.  It’s no big deal if you do.  If it stains the floor, it will wear off over time.

      The basement is not quite as attractive in the summer time when you are not looking for a warm place.  But it is nice to retreat from 100-degree heat to a cool basement and drink a beer.  Especially if the air conditioner isn’t working. 

     Of course the basement is not a place you take guests.  That’s what the “parlor” is for.  There, it doesn’t matter that your attempt to relax with a drink and a snack is somewhat thwarted by the fear of  spilling the drink or the chip dip, or that the couch and chairs aren’t terribly comfortable. Usually, you don’t want your guests to stay that long anyway.

     The basement is reserved for your intimates, your family and only your closest friends.

      The truth is, I can do anything I want to in the basement except two things—cook (no kitchen) or play the piano.  I can live there and be myself without putting on airs.  It’s comfortable and very low maintenance.

     I’d say the basement is a true man cave, except for the fact that better than 60% of the space is given over to sewing machines, sewing tables, counter tops devoted to quilting devices and shelves and shelves of material and patterns and such like.  But I see I’m edging ever closer to the iceberg.  Must take a lesson from the Titanic.  Don’t want that to rip a hole in me.

    Besides, I don’t mind sharing.  I don’t require much space.  When I’m sitting in front of the stove (it’s probably ugly, too) I can’t see much of the rest of the basement.

      Here’s to the basement (don’t worry if you spill your drink while toasting).  Did I mention it’s low-maintenance?