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November 15, 2009
The basement was a modern version of grandmother’s “Hoover room,” boxes piled to the ceiling, broken bits of things here and there, the feeling of being pressed in on all sides from stuff. It was as bad as I feared, mountains of things needing to be sorted and much of it disposed of somehow. I've already made several passes through my old college books, cassettes, family hand-me-downs (heirlooms I don’t particularly want) but the collection in his basement has motivated me to take another look at my baggage as soon as we’re done with his.