I felt horrible after my first night in my old bedroom at my parent's house. My head was completely clogged, my eyes were itchy and dry, I was sneezing, and had trouble breathing. I thought I was coming down with the flu until I looked up at the ceiling and saw two small patches of black mold growing. Great. The next night, I slept in the mildew-ridden basement with my old stuffed animals at the foot of the bed.
To my left was my mother's rollator that she used to get around the house after breaking her back following knee replacement surgery (she is doing much better and has lost several pounds). I gave it a spin around the basement a few times and was impressed that you can use it as a chair and/or a walker.
To my right was the stuffed chicken hawk that my Dad shot in Wyoming. That bird used to scare me to death when I was a kid. I thought the thing was going to come back to life and attack me like in an episode of Scooby Doo. You can also see one of my mom's creepy dolls, sitting on a white pillow and the unstable shelf hanging on the wall that I made in my high school shop class, holding her bell collection. She collects everything, nothing has been thrown away in that house for 50 years. Even things that don't work anymore and clothes she doesn't wear.
This is a relatively new addition in the last few years, and I don't understand it at all. A bird cage made of yarn with a fake bird hanging upside down like it is dead. Are you kidding me?
But the piece de resistance in the basement has got to be my Dad's trap shoot trophies. He used to be on a team at his factory and they would shoot every Sunday afternoon, sometimes to practice and sometimes for competitions. I would anxiously await his return home after competitions to see what design, color, and size trophy would be placed on the shelf. Now they sit in a dark, smelly, wet basement.
I felt horrible after my first night in my old bedroom at my parent's house. My head was completely clogged, my eyes were itchy and dry, I was sneezing, and had trouble breathing. I thought I was coming down with the flu until I looked up at the ceiling and saw two small patches of black mold growing. Great. The next night, I slept in the mildew-ridden basement with my old stuffed animals at the foot of the bed. 
To my left was my mother's rollator that she used to get around the house after breaking her back following knee replacement surgery (she is doing much better and has lost several pounds). I gave it a spin around the basement a few times and was impressed that you can use it as a chair and/or a walker. 
To my right was the stuffed chicken hawk that my Dad shot in Wyoming. That bird used to scare me to death when I was a kid. I thought the thing was going to come back to life and attack me like in an episode of Scooby Doo. You can also see one of my mom's creepy dolls, sitting on a white pillow and the unstable shelf hanging on the wall that I made in my high school shop class, holding her bell collection. She collects everything, nothing has been thrown away in that house for 50 years. Even things that don't work anymore and clothes she doesn't wear.
This is a relatively new addition in the last few years, and I don't understand it at all. A bird cage made of yarn with a fake bird hanging upside down like it is dead. Are you kidding me?
But the piece de resistance in the basement has got to be my Dad's trap shoot trophies. He used to be on a team at his factory and they would shoot every Sunday afternoon, sometimes to practice and sometimes for competitions. I would anxiously await his return home after competitions to see what design, color, and size trophy would be placed on the shelf. Now they sit in a dark, smelly, wet basement.
