If walls could talk

I wonder what the dust that is collected in a house will tell. When we moved into our home almost 32 years ago, we began a complete remodeling. Lathe and plaster were pulled from the walls and ceilings. The plumbing was completely pulled apart.
I can remember one evening as the floor lay strewn with lathe and plaster three feet deep. My father had been there to help me and my wife began laughing at the two of us. We weren’t sure what the laughter was all about until she said; “You have to look at yourself in the mirror.” We did and laughed with her.
It had been a hot day and we were soaked through with sweat. We were as black as could be the soot from years of coal burning in the home had penetrated every nook and cranny and we were covered in the soot. All that black dust and soot clung to every pore of our body.
This past weekend, I finally decided that it was time to paint my wood working shop. The drywall has been up for 30 years, but it had never received a coat of paint. I began by brushing down the ceiling that had collected the finest dust particles. As I came down from the ceiling, the old kitchen cupboards that had come with the home had over an inch of dust built up on their tops. I vacuumed it away and discovered a plastic sword that had been taken from one of my sons who couldn’t help himself by hitting others with it.
I found a bird-house building book, that I had taken a pattern from to create kits for cubs when I had been their leader. I also found some Cub-Car kits that were left. I found an outdoor timer that was still in the package. I discovered a roll of fibre glass that my father had purchased to re-fibreglass his cedar skiff and had never used.
I accidently banged on the springs of the garage door, and dust drifted down like a snowstorm. Thirty years of woodworking dust had accumulated and gravity was catching up. Over Saturday and Sunday, I must have vacuumed and swept the floor a dozen times a day and filled half a garbage bag with dust, and cobwebs.
I would always create extra parts for my woodworking projects. If I made an error, I had a replacement. If I misplaced something, I could continue on. Over time I have misplaced more than a few parts and moving work-benches, a lot of those piece were rediscovered. I had never really gotten down on my stomach with a flashlight to look underneath to the back to find those pieces.
Wood pieces were not the only discovery as every tool bench was moved. Screwdrivers and pliers that had gone missing were found. Some, I did not even recognize they have been missing for so long. When we began refinishing the house, we purchased some turn of the century brass handles door knobs and hinges. Not all was used and they were safely stored away. Under thick dust I picked up this box. The dust drifted off on to my shirt and I immediately remembered where my safe location for the hardware was.
The brass is still shiny. And the many of the old glass handle door knobs that were replaced are inside.
I remember how excited my wife and I were to discover and purchase those brass handles.
Every time something was moved, a old memory was rekindled. My sons first hockey sticks, their skates, my tube skates, tennis racquets, all were uncovered. Most of what I found is now destined for the garbage. All had been saved thinking that at some time I would find a use for it. We seldom did. The collection of articles grew. Uncovering the dust did rekindle memories.
–Jim Cumming,
Publisher