I liked to call my basement the memory factory. Just when I think I've seen everything, something pops out of a box that reminds me of older times. That's what happens when you inherit your parents’ one-hundred-and-twenty-year-old home.
I tried to keep the place tidy, but it was old and mildewy like most basements in the neighborhood, with a strong coat of dust that hit you when you walked downstairs. I could vacuum and spray vinegar down here every day and still not make any impact on the smell.
I ducked as I led the way down the low and narrow stairwell, one hand on a wooden banister that Pops and I installed years ago after one of my cousins took a nasty tumble and broke a leg. Yeah, these stairs weren't pretty. They were a real pain to carry laundry up and down. My knees didn't like
