This is the largest of the basement rooms. There are 10 in all, or nine if you don't count the little room under the stairs, although it is big enough to stand up in. At least if you're five foot almost two inches tall like me. Or maybe there's only eight rooms, if you don't count the toilet closet. I try not to think about that room; it's a very scary toilet room. In any case, I took this photo during the inspection. That elbow belongs to our agent, Joel, who is peering into mechanical room #1.
This is the same room today. We have a lot of crap. Every room in the basement looks like this. (And if the post office asks why we we're using their boxes to store our books, of course they were left over from our former eBay book business.)
I swear, all I've been doing for the last few days is cart boxes from one end of the basement to the other, arrange them in new and interesting patterns, and try to enforce some semblance of order on the whole mess. It's not easy. But I don't think I'll be able to tackle any serious projects on The Box House until I can at least point out, with no uncertainty, my bank statements and tax documents, my work-related books, my box of current reading and other obsessions and hobbies, and the box with Harley's ashes. (Mom's black lab died last summer, and, like our cat Pascal, we wanted to bring him with us to bury here.) So far, I'm O for four. But hopefully by the weekend I'll have a better grasp of everything.