We are sorry. Truly, deeply sorry. I know you loved your Care Bears. And the doll whose cheeks turned a weird color if you put an icey wand to her face. And the dolls your grandparents toted back from Europe. And Shamu. And the assorted stuffed Dalmatians and Barbies that came with every birthday, every Christmas, every every.
Who knew that little open drain in the basement could rise up like Buckingham Fountain and contaminate your childhoods? I assumed something had burrowed into the house and died under the floorboards. But, no, it was far more disgusting and unholy than a moldering chipmunk.
Your valiant Dad ventured into the room-that-shall-not-be-named and discovered a geyser (cannot.think.about.this.in.detail.due.to.gag.reflex) spewing into all of those Bekins moving boxes.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Did I mention stupid?
So there is ongoing cleanup. Continuing haz mat removal. The oak table. The Christmas tree. Your crib. The Dr. Seuss books. Muck and mold and ick for a lifetime.
What we can salvage with Clorox, we shall salvage. But mostly, it's headed to the landfill. Sorry, landfill. I will recycle three times as hard to make up for it.
(The above is a germ-free rendering of what's been lost.
Have I mentioned I'm sorry?)
Have I mentioned I'm sorry?)
5 comments:
So sorry you are dealing with that. But the things are just things. It's the memory of the things--memories of playing with the things, memories of receiving the things--that are precious and no fountain of sewage can ever take away the memories.
By the way, I am a sentimental fool and totally understand the anguish you are feeling.
Carol
What she said!
me three...anything I can do for you?
kak
Thank you very much, chix. We are good for now. Roto Rooter scoped the drain to the street and beyond. Great tip: hydrogen peroxide works best to kill bacteria. This will be the 88th mop up. eeeew.
Awww.
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