The house I grew up in had been remodeled with an apartment on the second floor, and another in the basement. My folks and I lived near a college, so that wasn’t unusual. College students often preferred off-campus housing, and I’m drifting off-topic.
My father kept his clothes in the basement apartment’s closet, on the north side of the bedroom/living room.
He’d made bookshelves on the west wall by stacking bricks and laying finished planks between them. A dresser with, eventually, a half-dozen or so pocket watches on top lay between the bookshelves and closet door. Their ticking filled the apartment with an intricately convoluted soft percussion ambiance, and that’s another topic for another day.
His desk sat across from the dresser, next to the closet door, facing the kitchen. At some point he set up a four-by-eight-foot model railroad layout down there. It must have been against the south wall. Funny. I know what the layout looked like, but don’t have a clear picture of how it fit in the room. It’s been a long time.
Wrenching myself back on-topic, Dad also had an old overstuffed leather-covered arm chair. I think it’d been his father’s. At any rate, it had seen better days. The leather was slightly cracked, and stiff. It was one of my two, maybe three, favorite chairs.
I could, and did, sit in that armchair, reading something — often as not, one of the Pogo books Dad kept on those shelves — while my father sat at his desk, also reading.
Those are good memories.
Maybe sitting in a basement, reading, isn’t high in the list of Hallmark moments of parent-child bonding. But it worked for me and my father, and having those memories is — very pleasant.
I asked our oldest daughter to check this post. Her response:
“That arm chair sounds wonderful.
“Every time I hear or read you describe Grandpa’s study from when you were growing up, I imagine it lit with warm orange lights casting deep, burgundy shadows.”
Running Late, Then the Elevator Went CLUNK
That’s about it for this week.
No, wait. There’s one more item of possible interest.
I got to Mass on Sunday mainly because I’ve set the alarm to give me an excessive safety margin.
Since I forgot to do the ‘spring forward’ Daylight Savings thing, that meant I was only slightly late. A few years back, the elevator was highly recommended to me as a means of getting up to the sanctuary. I think seeing me negotiate the stairs made folks nervous.
Anyway, I pushed the appropriate button, felt the elevator start upwards, heard a dull CLUNK, and felt it stop.
Good news, someone got at the controls and sent me on my way. Also good news, there’s a bench in the elevator, so I was comfortable while listening to the homily.
I think I’ll take the stairs next week.
More about that basement:
- “Matchstick Rockets in the Basement” (November 29, 2025)
- “Remembering a House I Grew Up in, and Gratitude” (November 22, 2025)
- “A Crate of Oranges” (February 1, 2025)
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