Sarah Nigbor

By the title of this column, you might think I’m going to regale you with a magical tale about a mystical castle in a faraway land. But I’m not. Strap on your boots, because instead we’re going to wade through a backed-up septic-soaked basement complete with sewage, bugs and dead mice.

My mother lives in the house that once belonged to my grandparents. It’s a cute little house with a hidden monster: An unruly septic system. Even before my grandparents died, numerous repairs were made and I believe it was even replaced. However, in the last couple years, it has backed up at least three times. While clearly unpleasant, we had no idea how far the water had actually gone because the basement was so packed with “treasures.” And I mean wall-to-wall boxes, bags and furniture.

The obvious culprit is toilet paper that’s not septic safe and using too much of it. However, we recently learned the iron pipes beneath the basement floor are disintegrated. It’s a miracle anything got through them at all. So the basement floor must be jack-hammered and all of it replaced. Yippee.

How does this relate to a castle? I’m getting there, don’t worry.

My uncle asked me to help my mother clean out the basement in preparation for the expensive concrete-busting demo. Gulp. I could think of nothing I’d rather do less. The sheer thought of moving the mountains of belongings up out of the basement was daunting. But I was basically the only family member who could physically do it, so I strapped on my figurative boots and big girl pants and dove in.

When I told my husband the date I selected for the sewage shindig, he did a good job of trying to look sad that he couldn’t help. To his dismay (yeah right) his boss was sending him to an education symposium. The tragedy. I’m sure he was devastated to miss out on all the fun. I bet he was especially devastated when it ended early and he had a three-hour nap in his recliner while the house was empty.

My hope dwindled as my best friend bowed out due to work obligations. Next casualty was my 14-year-old stepson, who was needed at A&W. It was down to me, Ethan (16), Lincoln (12) and Carolina (11). I gulped again. But if anything, my grandpa taught me to never give up, so I vowed we’d get it done.

I shouldn’t have been nervous. Not only did my mom and aunt provide invaluable help in sorting boxes as they were shoved out the door onto the lawn, but Ethan was a powerhouse. He ran up and down the basement stairs like a champ, carrying soaked box after box after box while I pulled things out of standing water in corners, off shelves and moved furniture around. Lincoln and Carolina were also helpful, but little attention spans only last so long before the 27^th juice box break is “needed.”

I had to turn my brain off and just plow through the ick, which had also turned into a breeding ground for the largest crickets I’ve ever seen, a few mushroom-like creatures and slimy, soaked boxes. It didn’t help that Carolina thought spraying potpourri-scented Glade throughout would cover the scent. It didn’t; it just combined into a poopy flower nightmare.

My grandparents were nothing if not frugal. They lived through the Great Depression, so saving everything was in their blood. I can’t count the number of boxes of random things I found: More plastic cottage cheese and Cool Whip containers than a small village would ever need; boxes of plastic sheeting, bedsheets, rugs, clothes, paint cans, batteries, pillows, holiday decorations in at least 20 different places, you name it.

I even found toys of mine I thought had gone to the dump or a garage sale long ago: A My Little Pony barn I won in a coloring contest at Country Kitchen, my plastic Barbie lunchbox in pristine condition from third grade, the dress I wore to my aunt Lorraine’s wedding in 1989, and the most surprising and terrifying thing of them all: A sugar cube castle my mother and I constructed at Christmas in 1988. Why on earth my grandmother thought that was a good idea I’ll never know. I have to believe she forgot about it and hadn’t meant to keep it long-term. The sugar cubes were real, so I’m surprised they held up all these years. Maybe the mice preferred that to the D-Con. Anyway, there it was, high on a shelf, withered and gray but still intact. The gumdrops looked like moldy blobs.

After that ordeal, I vow something to my children and future grandchildren: I will not leave you a house, basement or any building packed to the gills with crap to go through when I die. I will throw or give away things I don’t truly need. You will be left with a few select heirlooms and sentimental items, but not wall-to-wall “treasures.”