Basement Memories, March 1, 2026. 852 words

Many of my childhood memories have sensory components. The crunch of gravel driving into the garage, the smell of fuel oil after a delivery, or the sharp vinegar of the stop bath all are part of my memories. They are associated with childhood remembrances of our basement.
Our ranch house was built on a small hill with the garage under my bedroom. When my parents were gone for the evening, I would wait, watching the headlights of passing cars move across my ceiling. Only when the lights would pause and move towards the window indicating my parents’ return, could I sleep.
The basement could be accessed from the garage and a stairway to the kitchen. The stairs were in the middle of this L-shaped space. Two doors provided entrance to the half bath and the utility/laundry areas. As a young child, I was afraid of this part of the basement. The light fixtures had long cords to turn on lights. I was too short to use them. I actively explored this area as I grew older and braver. This part of the basement was also in an L shape.
To the side of the stairs, I had two old-school desks to play school. They included hinged seats and holes for an inkwell. Two boxes of clothing were downstairs. A heavy cardboard box with my dress-up clothes purchased from the church rummage sales. One formal was canary yellow with sequins on the skirt. Another was lilac with a short coat to be worn over a sleeveless gown. I had a pair of purple high heels. My favorite item was a Chiquita banana lady. It was a straw hat resembling a bowl of cloth fruits.
The second wooden box held old army blankets, sweaters, and socks from my uncle’s time in the navy. The contents of both boxes were ruined when the storm drains were overwhelmed with a spring flooding.
A large flowered cloth bag was suspended under the clothes chute. Mom, tired of dirty laundry scattered on the floor, sewed a bag with a large zipper in the bottom to prevent the clothes from releasing before the basket could be filled.
A door led into the laundry room. This room intrigued and frightened me. The noises of the oil furnace, water running through pipes, and the creaking of the floorboards gave rise to a vivid imagination.
When playing hide and seek, I would squeeze my body into the smallest place to hide. I would be found under the oil tank, deep under the stairs, or wedged in a shelf of an old cabinet. When the old furnace was replaced with a modern gas one, I found a new diversion. Along with the furnace, an incinerator was installed. This had a door in the top with a bottom gas flame. I would bring my bag of bedroom trash and carefully place the bag into the opening. I enjoyed watching the bag catch on fire. Quickly, I slammed the door before the flames caught completely. The extra joy was the heat generated, which was appreciated in the cold basement.
In the winter, we hung clothes to dry on several clotheslines. Though we had a gas dryer, Mom didn’t like the expense of drying heavier items.
The back wall, behind the stairs, had several old shelves from my Grandpa’s electric shop. Many odds and ends were found on this unit. I remember a science project from Mike of a rotating hand that could be run with electricity. It was stored for a time before being discarded.
The third room was a half bath with room for storage. The walls were open, revealing studs and the back of the drywall. In between the studs, Dad had the measurements of each of his five children recorded on our birthdays. The rest of the walls were covered with nails and hooks to hold hockey skates, wooden skis, and boxing gloves. They told of Dad teaching boxing in the basement of the church.
The fishing tackle and a boat motor on a stand were kept for those cherished summer vacations. I would open the tackle box to gaze at a lure of a mermaid with several large hooks along her body. I don’t recall any in my family using this to fish.
Finally, my brother Mike became interested in developing black-and-white photography. He worked to make this bathroom light-tight and installed an infrared light to illuminate without affecting the developing process. The chemicals used each had a distinctive smell. The acrid smell of the developer, the vinegar odor of the stop bath, and the setting bath or the fixer had a sulfur odor. I could easily identify the chemical by its scent.
The details of my basement memories indicated my many happy winter hours playing in this special place.
*** Poem
Underground
Inside a hill, under creaking floorboards,
was my childhood domain.
Mothball clothing, oil, and drying scents can be recalled.
Finding hidden treasures to be kept in a box.
Hoping to identify them … later.
Those treasures are lost now,
like my childhood.
carolaspot@aol.com copyrighted 3/2/26