Tuesday, July 31, 2018

There's A Monster In My Basement

The first time my basement flooded, I was living in Wellesley, Massachusetts, in a tiny rental house. My husband had just started a new job outside of Boston, and we had a new baby, adopted from the Philippines. 

I was feeling overwhelmed and clueless. My son was one-year-old when we brought him home. What did I know about babies? Nothing!

Case-in-point: At the local supermarket, I went up to a stranger with kids and asked, "WHAT DO YOU FEED THEM?"

She looked at me, and then my son, smiled, and dragged us around the grocery store pointing out blueberries and Cheerios and string cheese. (File this under: THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS and MY SON LOVES BLUEBERRIES).

Around that time, the bottom of our hot water heater disintegrated and flooded our entire basement. I stood on the rickety basement stairs and surveyed the carnage with tears in my eyes. 

My voice cracked as I said to my husband, "What are we going to do?"

With not an ounce of sentimentality, he said, "EVERYTHING MUST GO."

I stammered, "But...but..."

Husband said, "It's just STUFF." 


Boxes from college...GONE.

Love notes from college...GONE.

Old books, pictures, everything that was soaking wet was gone.

Because I was so overwhelmed with being a new mom, I just blinked and moved on. I didn't have time to despair over lost things.

Jump ahead twenty years...We are now living in another house.

Summer vacation. I had PLANS. Big plans. I was going to finish AN ENTIRE BOOK. I had visions of me in front of the computer with a cup of coffee and notes about wildlife in Maine and a daily word count that would make your head spin.

And then...

It started to rain from the ceiling. 

First, it rained from the living room ceiling.

Then, it rained from the basement ceiling.

And then, just when I thought typhoon season had ended inside my house, the washing machine malfunctioned and it flooded my basement.

But that wasn't the worst of it.

The worst of it was THE MOLD.

At first I didn't realize there was MOLD. And then I noticed a smell.

A musty, bad smell.

Upon closer inspection, I found colonies of microorganisms happily living in my basement.

I should now take a brief moment to say that although I have no fear of spiders or snakes, I have a thing about...microbes. An irrational fear of stuff I can't see. It makes me feel helpless and afraid and...itchy.


I felt like there was a monster in my basement, growing, laughing, inviting his friends over for coffee.

And my family was living over the monster.

How was I supposed to take care of my family when there was a monster in the basement?

If you're wondering how I was handling this, I have one sentence for you...

I cried making eggs.


The yolk broke.

And I broke.

My son (who is now twenty-years-old) said, "Mom, are you okay?"

My 15-year-old daughter said, "Are you okay?"

My husband said, "You're not okay."

Every night I had stress dreams about my miniature dachshund Lucy.

She was in trouble. She was drowning. She lost all her fur and looked like a strange weasel.

I called the garbage removal service guy, but he didn't call back.

I called again.


My husband said, "He's probably on vacation. He'll be back soon."


Finally, he called back. My last message had sounded rather desperate. He was apologetic and promised to come first thing in the morning.

Have I told you that garbage removal guy is my FAVORITE GUY IN THE WORLD? 

In the meantime, my kids and I donned rubber gloves and attempted to organize the monster in the basement.

We started to go through "the boxes."

My son said, "Is this a box of my homework from first grade?"

I nodded.

He grabbed the box and chucked it onto the garbage heap.

Clearly, he was lacking sentimentality just like his father!

"Mom, never save homework."


Finally, we sort of gave up. It was obvious the mold had spread over almost everything, and so everything had to go.

As I sifted through the boxes, it was like going back in a time machine of my life. Things from high school, college, grad school (the kids laughed at my old computer), married life, when the kids were babies, and on and on.

And it all went onto the garbage pile.

I was numb. How could I throw away my life?

When I made this pathetic observation to my neighbor, she said, "This is a good thing. Your life is your family, and you take care of them every day. You don't need the stuff in the basement. You get to throw away all the junk and start fresh. This is a cleansing."

I thought about what she said.

A cleansing.

Sort of the ultimate decluttering project.

Did I really need my son's kindergarten drawing?

My wedding dress from 1990?

Antiques I bought in grad school?

I thought about our dinner the night before, which involved a hodge-podge of mismatched food items and plenty of jokes. How nice it was.

Just hanging out with my family and living in that moment.

And it had nothing to do with my puffy wedding dress from 1990.

I have to admit, when the garbage guys were all done, and my basement was EMPTY, I felt...calm.

The fear and stress were gone. Maybe that whole thing about emotional well-being and decluttering is real! 

Cleaning the basement was a symbolic cleansing, as well as a literal cleansing of my mold-infested basement.

And...interesting that it was the basement. The foundation of my home. And my life?

Am I starting over?

I am currently in the process of shedding my Penny Watson persona and writing as Nina Roth Borromeo. And switching from romance to something totally new and different.

So, yeah. Sort of starting with a fresh foundation.


Another thing I learned this summer...I'm usually the go-to person in my family when problems crop up.

I'm the rock. The calm one. The rational one.

So when I started crying about broken yolks, I wasn't sure what was going to happen.

Guess what happened? Everyone else in the family stepped up. My kids slapped on rubber gloves and cleaned the moldy boxes. They calmed me down. They made me laugh.

My husband told me a story about living through a typhoon in Guam, when their house flooded with water up to their waist, and they lost electricity for MONTHS, and needed food/supplies brought in.

And he said to me, "Guess how much mold we had then?"

Horrified, I nodded and thought to myself, "This isn't so bad."

My husband calmed ME down and made me believe everything would be okay.

Which it was.

And my daughter made the observation, "It's like mom and dad just switched places," and that was true.

It made me feel safe and good, knowing that when I needed it, my family had my back.


And so, here we are. With an empty basement, and a chance for a fresh start. 

And hopefully no more stress dreams about Lucy.

And a very grateful mom, who knows she has two fantastic kids, and a grateful wife who appreciates her husband of almost-30-years.

I don't recommend starting a mold colony in your basement, but I do highly recommend a life-cleansing if you need it.


Happy Summer Days,


Monday, July 30, 2018

Sneak Peek for BLUE

August 19, 1998

Cardin Sentinel
Issue 497
Local Police Updates

Thursday afternoon: Sergeant Rollins answered a call to 72 Blacksmith Avenue on the afternoon of August 19, 1998. Jeremy Welsh, age 75, placed the call at approximately 1:49 pm.
Mr. Welsh complained in the phone call that a family of raccoons had ransacked his dumpster, ripping out trash and flinging it around his backyard. Mr. Welsh was extremely upset because he was hosting a family picnic for later that day, and the raccoons had left a huge mess.
“I already had the picnic tables set with the good paper plates.”
Sergeant Rollins took a cruiser down to Blacksmith to investigate.
He arrived at 3:09 pm.
According to Sergeant Rollins, the Welsh property was in pristine condition when he arrived and Mr. Welsh was sheepish.
Recording of conversation between Sergeant Rollins and Mr. Welsh:
WELSH: They cleaned it up already. Sorry you had to made a trip. How about I get you a cold beer for your troubles?
ROLLINS: I’m sorry Mr. Welsh, but I’m on duty. No beers until I punch out. [pause, background noise of glass] Who exactly cleaned it up?
WELSH: Well, now. That’s a funny thing. It’s a real funny thing.
ROLLINS: Yes, sir. Why don’t you tell me about it?
WELSH: This family of raccoons, they’ve been nothing but trouble. All summer long. They’re driving me crazy.
ROLLINS: What exactly are they doing?
WELSH: [snort] Honest to God, they’re like a bunch of drunk frat boys. They gorge themselves on my garbage, litter, fight in the backyard. They’re noisy, too. Chirping and grunting and whining. I throw bottles at them, and they just duck. I think...they’re laughing at me.
ROLLINS: Mr. Welsh, raccoons can’t laugh.
WELSH: I’m telling you, boy, these raccoons are taunting me. They duck and keep right on ripping apart my KFC buckets.
ROLLINS: Okay, if you say so, Mr. Welsh. [sound of rustling paper] The thing is, Mr. Welsh, I don’t see any sign of litter or vandalism.
WELSH: Yup. That’s the part I’m getting to. The bears.
WELSH: Bears.
ROLLINS: I don’t see any bears, Mr. Welsh.
WELSH: For cripes sakes, the bears are gone! They already cleaned up, and then they took off. It didn’t take them more than ten minutes to straighten up.
ROLLINS: I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Welsh. How many beers have you had? I thought the party didn’t start until 7 pm.
WELSH: [sigh] Damn it, listen to me. The bears showed up, scared off the ‘coons. Then they...then they...
ROLLINS: You sure the bears weren’t your nephews, Mr. Welsh? Maybe playing a joke on you?
WELSH: I think I know the difference between my good-for-nothing nephews and a Black bear. For one thing, the bears have hella better manners. And probably more brain cells to boot.
ROLLINS: So...what happened after that?
WELSH: The bears started to collect the trash. And they chucked it back into the dumpster. [sound of cigarette lighter and Mr. Welsh coughing] There were a bunch of them. Maybe five. Or six? I’ve got the dumpster because I’m fixing up the basement. Wife wants a place to do her crafty stuff. Sewing. And quilting. Already picked out new wallpaper.
ROLLINS: Mr. Welsh, are you telling me that half a dozen Black bears showed up in your backyard, scared off a bunch of unruly raccoons, and then proceeded to clean up your yard?
WELSH: Damned straight. That’s what I’m saying. Look, I gotta get goin’. I have a pick-up order waiting for me at Brighton Burgers. And I think I need more beer.
ROLLINS: Mr. Welsh, no more beer before dinner time. And it would help us out a lot if you stopped calling the station. Okay?
WELSH: I pay taxes just like everyone else. I’ll call when I want to, boy. How old are you, son? You look like you’re about sixteen. Do you even shave yet?
ROLLINS: [speaking into radio] All clear at Welsh residence. No sign of vandalism or rabid animals. Just a bunch of empties in the recycling bin.
James McNichol, PhD and town naturalist, with a degree in zoology from Maine State College, inspected the property the following week. He reported prints from both Procyon lotor (common raccoon) and Ursus americanus (American black bear). There were also copious amounts of raccoon scat, but no bear droppings. He made the observation that the raccoon prints were scattered haphazardly all over the rear property, about a quarter of mile back, just to the forest line. The bear prints were orderly and neat.
Dr. McNichol’s assessment: “Interesting.”