A house which was inhabited by the hoard-iest kind of hoarder.
Then imagine that someone as curious about people and yesteryear as me gets invited to Help Myself to the plunder.
Imagine collecting some sisters on a Saturday morning and taking a road trip with coffee in hand.
Wanna join me on a virtual tour? Party pants required.
Optional: Really nasty undies with a teeny weeney pocket intended for I-Don't-wanna-know-what. Plus racing stripes. ewwww.
Might help to explain why the one-time lady of the house found it necessary to hide a bottle of gin in her drawer of delicates.
There was uplifting literature cleverly placed within the rubble. With pants in hand, I felt it inevitable that I too could Be Someone Special!
Tempted that I was to borrow an ingeniously repaired set of spectacles, I managed to navigate those cluttered rooms without them. I did need frequent breaks to utter any number of exclamatory phrases.
Such was the nature of the treasure hunt.
Some treasures then:
#5 Red Wing crock in perfect shape. Hidden behind roughly 40,000 empty milk jugs.
A metal dish rack. I just know I'm going to think of some ingenious use for that!
Moments after hanging my recently acquired enamel soap dish, I find another one. The layers of grime were barely a distraction.
Some vintage sewing notions; and hidden in a "bathroom" smelling of eau de pee pee, a whole box full of flour and sugar sack cotton. A whole lot of vinegar and tide later: voila! Ready for repurposing.
There was no end to the tins, bits, baubles and weird-osities that these people hoarded. I actually felt overwhelmed a great deal of the time and limited myself to one suitcase (out of five we found in the bedroom) full of oddities and treasure.
Doors. Oh, the doors.
And the property.
If only I could copy and paste it a whole lot closer to my childrens' schools, I'd rescue this old dump and live happily ever after on my treed and orchared villa.
Although I chose to leave the dentures wrapped in dirty paper towel behind; I couldn't possibly go home without this fully functional Singer Sewing machine light!
Or the clock.
Or the empty cigarette package stuffed full of poetry about the frustrations of being a woman.
What's a #5 Red Wing without a #4?
Ah, the scenery. Both indoors and out.
And now a petition. If I ever start storing remnants of cut crepe paper, hooks and eyes from discard intimates, hardware off of suspenders, tins full of broken pens, dentures in plastic bags, phone books spanning the centuries, half an attic full of empty cardboard boxes, five gallon pails in the kitchen, bits of linoleum, scattered game pieces, moldy hats, broom handles, wooden boxes, and balls of old shoe laces; do me a favour.
Leave me alone.
I just might be having the time of my life.