Geological closet
Dec. 12th, 2010 03:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pameladeanThis is mostly for my own sake; I'm not sure how generally interesting it will be.
A few weeks ago, a neighbor who works for a realty company left on our doorstep two large black plastic garbage bags adorned with flyers for Sharing and Caring Hands, asking for donations of warm coats, hats, and gloves. One was to put the items in the bags, attach the flyers, and leave the bags on the porch on December 12.
I immediately began excavating the enormous coat closet on the first floor. I know it doesn't go to Narnia only because it's under the stairs and the back of it is too low. Also, there aren't enough fur coats.
I found to my dismay that when we had a huge infestation of mice a few years back, they had explored the closet. Their attitude towards the top shelf seemed to be, "This is boring and that's not food; never mind." Their attitude towards the floor of the closet was unfortunately more protracted, although it seemed to reduce to, "No food, too cold, but lots of room to poke around and make a mess in before moving on to greener pastures." The greener pastures were the parts of the house where cats are allowed, and I believe these were the mice that Lydy found laid as offerings on her bedroom floor, one after another for four days.
I tossed the mouse-chewed stuff and cleaned up part, though not all, of the floor.
Then I laid out all the pairs of gloves and all the odd gloves, and the hats and ski masks and other items that I didn't recognize. David pounced on his warm boots and his good gloves that he'd misplaced, and Eric inherited a pair of fleece gloves and maybe a balaclava; he needs to try it out first.
I washed what was washable: a short mustard-colored jacket, very warm, that I got in a rummage swap hosted by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elisem; it originally belonged to a friend of hers named Sam. It hung in our back hall for years, and I put it on when I went to take out the trash or fill the bird feeder in cold weather. But short jackets don't really suit me; I am too short-waisted. So I washed it and put it into one of the black plastic bags. In its place I put a much-worn quilted black silk jacket that also has an Elisian provenance. In the late 1990's I needed a winter coat and had no money, so she took me to Marshall's, and we settled on this jacket as the underlayer and a large loose-fitting gray wool coat for the overlayer. I wore these in winter quite happily for a number of years. The only real drawback was that the gray coat was so long that I tended to tread on it when going up the steps onto a bus. The gray wool coat was in the closet too, but could not be washed and was missing a button. I put it into the other bag, deciding we'd have one bag of things that were ready to wear and another of things that needed some help.
Into the washed bag I also put a brilliant teal fleece coat that my mother gave me that I love on the hangar but not on my person. It needs somebody with a different shape. I also put in about ten pairs of gloves and mittens, three hats, a ski mask, and a scarf.
Some of the things did not survive washing, most notably a pair of red, white and blue handmade mittens. I remembered that I had had them in graduate school and found them a bit scratchy. When I was looking for washing instructions, I saw that there were name-tags sewn into the wrists. Nick O'Donohoe, my college and grad-school sweetie. I was always losing my mittens in college -- my roommates once stole my coat and mittens, attached the mittens to a long piece of yarn, and let the yarn through the sleeves of the coat, as one does for young children; the mittens dangle pathetically when not worn, but they don't get lost. This worked for two winters, I believe, but at some point I lost the coat. In any case, Nick must have given me his extra mittens. I'm sorry they fell apart, but not too surprised. I left graduate school in 1977.
With the gray wool coat I put a long reversible down coat in navy blue and turquoise. Its instructions say sternly not to wash it, not to dry-clean it in a home washing machine, professionally dry clean it, dammit. I checked with the cleaners, but they wouldn't have been able to get it back in time. I hope Caring and Sharing Hands will either get it cleaned or pass it on to some outfit that can do that. I also put into that bag some pairs of enormous leather fleece-lined mittens that couldn't be washed. It was fortunately quite evident which items had been moused and which had not. What had to be washed and couldn't be, or what had been chewed on, I threw out.
I put the bags out on the porch this afternoon, figuring that the people who were picking them up would probably not have shown up early in the morning. Sure enough, they're gone now.
There's a back corner of the closet I haven't excavated yet, and I'm hoping the other halves of all the odd gloves will be in there. Once washed, they can go to the Salvation Army across the alley. I don't give the Salvation Army cash because I don't like their hiring practices, but I know people who shop there, so I don't mind giving them stuff. I have some books for them as well. And they apparently don't really vet the donated books, so one can slip in subversive YA literature if one likes.
Pamela
A few weeks ago, a neighbor who works for a realty company left on our doorstep two large black plastic garbage bags adorned with flyers for Sharing and Caring Hands, asking for donations of warm coats, hats, and gloves. One was to put the items in the bags, attach the flyers, and leave the bags on the porch on December 12.
I immediately began excavating the enormous coat closet on the first floor. I know it doesn't go to Narnia only because it's under the stairs and the back of it is too low. Also, there aren't enough fur coats.
I found to my dismay that when we had a huge infestation of mice a few years back, they had explored the closet. Their attitude towards the top shelf seemed to be, "This is boring and that's not food; never mind." Their attitude towards the floor of the closet was unfortunately more protracted, although it seemed to reduce to, "No food, too cold, but lots of room to poke around and make a mess in before moving on to greener pastures." The greener pastures were the parts of the house where cats are allowed, and I believe these were the mice that Lydy found laid as offerings on her bedroom floor, one after another for four days.
I tossed the mouse-chewed stuff and cleaned up part, though not all, of the floor.
Then I laid out all the pairs of gloves and all the odd gloves, and the hats and ski masks and other items that I didn't recognize. David pounced on his warm boots and his good gloves that he'd misplaced, and Eric inherited a pair of fleece gloves and maybe a balaclava; he needs to try it out first.
I washed what was washable: a short mustard-colored jacket, very warm, that I got in a rummage swap hosted by
elisem; it originally belonged to a friend of hers named Sam. It hung in our back hall for years, and I put it on when I went to take out the trash or fill the bird feeder in cold weather. But short jackets don't really suit me; I am too short-waisted. So I washed it and put it into one of the black plastic bags. In its place I put a much-worn quilted black silk jacket that also has an Elisian provenance. In the late 1990's I needed a winter coat and had no money, so she took me to Marshall's, and we settled on this jacket as the underlayer and a large loose-fitting gray wool coat for the overlayer. I wore these in winter quite happily for a number of years. The only real drawback was that the gray coat was so long that I tended to tread on it when going up the steps onto a bus. The gray wool coat was in the closet too, but could not be washed and was missing a button. I put it into the other bag, deciding we'd have one bag of things that were ready to wear and another of things that needed some help.Into the washed bag I also put a brilliant teal fleece coat that my mother gave me that I love on the hangar but not on my person. It needs somebody with a different shape. I also put in about ten pairs of gloves and mittens, three hats, a ski mask, and a scarf.
Some of the things did not survive washing, most notably a pair of red, white and blue handmade mittens. I remembered that I had had them in graduate school and found them a bit scratchy. When I was looking for washing instructions, I saw that there were name-tags sewn into the wrists. Nick O'Donohoe, my college and grad-school sweetie. I was always losing my mittens in college -- my roommates once stole my coat and mittens, attached the mittens to a long piece of yarn, and let the yarn through the sleeves of the coat, as one does for young children; the mittens dangle pathetically when not worn, but they don't get lost. This worked for two winters, I believe, but at some point I lost the coat. In any case, Nick must have given me his extra mittens. I'm sorry they fell apart, but not too surprised. I left graduate school in 1977.
With the gray wool coat I put a long reversible down coat in navy blue and turquoise. Its instructions say sternly not to wash it, not to dry-clean it in a home washing machine, professionally dry clean it, dammit. I checked with the cleaners, but they wouldn't have been able to get it back in time. I hope Caring and Sharing Hands will either get it cleaned or pass it on to some outfit that can do that. I also put into that bag some pairs of enormous leather fleece-lined mittens that couldn't be washed. It was fortunately quite evident which items had been moused and which had not. What had to be washed and couldn't be, or what had been chewed on, I threw out.
I put the bags out on the porch this afternoon, figuring that the people who were picking them up would probably not have shown up early in the morning. Sure enough, they're gone now.
There's a back corner of the closet I haven't excavated yet, and I'm hoping the other halves of all the odd gloves will be in there. Once washed, they can go to the Salvation Army across the alley. I don't give the Salvation Army cash because I don't like their hiring practices, but I know people who shop there, so I don't mind giving them stuff. I have some books for them as well. And they apparently don't really vet the donated books, so one can slip in subversive YA literature if one likes.
Pamela
