The Box of Divorce

It's been over 6 years since we bought this house and in that time, I have promised Hubster that I would get rid of a gigantic box of old books and magazines about 2 million times. I know we really have no need for 40 odd issues of Paris Match and Vue Images that date from the 1940-1960s, nor do we need the 25 odd books about Catholic Catechism of the early 1900s, but I have a hard time getting past the idea of "just getting rid of them."


A couple of the books have notes scribbles in the margins and the owner's name and address marked carefully inside the cover. It's an address I know and love well. These books and mags were here before us, I feel like they come with the place.

I've tried to convince Hubster that we should sell them or keep them but he's not going for it. The monetary value of the magazines and books are only one of sentiment for someone. If we kept them, where on earth would we store them? Next to Mini-Husband's collection of train pieces? Down with the dogs' stuff in the basement? Heck, we don't even know who half the people are in the Paris Match magazines, except for the ones about Queen Elizabeth's coronation.

The attic is currently in the process of being plastered and made ready for it's transformation from dusty storage space to rooms for the tribe. (Right on French timing too since it's only been just over a year since the roof got done.) The box needs to go. As much as it pains me, Husbter is right on this one.

All the same, I'm going to pick a couple of issues and a couple of books and keep them safe. A little souvenir stash of history. I'm hoping one day, I'll be able to put some old text books of Bubba-Love and Rosebud's next to them and keep the story going, as it were.

So, House, tell me more. Through those dusty battered books, tell me more of your wonderfully cluttered, spider webbed, history filled silence. I promise to share the story by giving everyone else a 1954 copy of Paris Match for their birthday...