My aging parents’ basement flooded and somehow I was the lifeline called when Mom and Dad stepped knee-deep into floating cat litter.
Seems Eduardo may not have put in the best drainage system under their new patio, so torrential rain let A River Run Through It despite 40 years – FORTY EFFing YEARS – of dry basement.
The big thaw brought white caps and gurgling sounds coming from multiple crevices where walls meet floor.
Which my dad can’t hear because he can’t find the hearing aid batteries. Which I’m sure he conveniently lost to mute my mother running around in her hot-pink crocs trying desperately to save floating tax returns from 1987.
Two wet vacs, three kids, two adults, a pink-croc wearing Chicken Little, and a Deaf Dad. Trying to save boxes upon bags upon teetering piles of valuable merchandise stuff.
But we’re approaching Hoarders. And fast.
My parents are academics. Intellectuals. History and antique buffs. Which means everything has a story, and those stories hold the power to replace 401k’s. Which they can, with time, but not soaking wet.
Because even if Bobble Head Bill Clinton is valuable, he’s worth nothing found belly up floating in a river of despair.
And I’m running out of favors to offer my rather attractive husband who wet-vacked ALL NIGHT LONG to save what he thinks might someday might land us a beach house, but I know will only get us a mold allergy.
My grandmother saved yard sticks and tartar sauce packets. My mom promised never to do that.
Sell the stuff, because it’s worth nothing wet.
And really, we don’t want the Hess trucks and yards of authentic Turkish wool and political paraphernalia and the Porsche hard top.
Even if, yes, even if, it is extraordinary rare and has a great story.