5 Random Thoughts On…

My blog I've ignored for 2 years while attending the Brandcenter

Don’t call it a laundry room


You can learn a lot about someone when you live in his house. Even if he’s not staying with you.

This is the story of a utility room.

Don’t call it a laundry room because it’s not a laundry room. Yes, there is a washing machine and a dryer. And yes, laundry is deposited there. It travels down a chute from the third floor, that if my sons ever discovered existed would increase my parenting challenge from “tremendous” to “Oh fuck me”. The dirty clothes are collected and sorted into piles of colors and whites, towels and sheets. They are then washed, dried, folded and placed into white plastic laundry hampers to be Sherpa’d back upstairs and delivered to their assigned rooms.

But this is not a laundry room.

It’s a utility room.

There is a workbench, homemade, that stretches along the back wall. The legs are sturdy and the table is strong. It looks like you could rest a car engine on it. I wouldn’t be shocked if at one time it had. Behind the workbench and covering the back wall is a pegboard. Tools hang perfectly along this wall each with their own designated space, as if there was no other possible place in the universe a hacksaw should hang.

I like to think that when this wall was built someone might have wondered what would happen when the builder needed to add a new tool to his collection. I imagine a chuckle would have escaped followed by a dismissive shake of the head explaining that he already owned all the tools that he would ever need.

He was right.

Along this wall the tools wait in a state of hibernation. Waiting for the moment when their owner would call on them. When he did they would perform admirably and their reward would be a proper cleaning and to be returned to their rightful place. They’d get a playful wink from their owner as a way of saying “Attaboy” and they would hang a little straighter, a little prouder, basking in the envy of the other tools on the wall.


Above the workbench and attached to the pegboard wall are shelves. These shelves hold clear glass jars containing nails, screws, bolts, and washers each separated into their own collection depending on size and quantity. The jars are from a different era when condiments still came in small glass containers and not the plastic tubes that clog my refrigerator door today.

The labels are gone, meticulously scrapped off, but the metal lids still portray their former contents proudly.


Where once was Morton’s Salad Dressing is now filled with small rusty nails from an old paper box that had fallen apart years ago. Gone is the creamy Skippy peanut butter but in its place various hooks await a chance to prove their strength. Long gone are the Gerber baby food and Maxwell house coffee, now they are the resting place for every size and shape screw someone might ever need.

It’s easy to look at these dusty jars and wonder why someone would keep such a collection. Little pieces of this and that stuffed into recycled containers that sit and take up space.

That is until the time comes when you need a nail, screw or hook of a particular size. Then you reach up and pluck one of those glass jars off the shelf and turn the lid. It gives a slight pop, as it tastes fresh air for the first time in decades. You empty the jar onto the homemade workbench and sift through the assortment. Your eyes widen as you pick one up and examine it a little closer. A smile creeps across your face as you realize somewhere someone much smarter than you is giving you an “I told you so” look.

I don’t pretend to be “handy”. In fact I don’t put either the “handy” nor “man” in handyman. But, maybe that’s because I’ve never had a utility room. One where the answer to most household problems is laying patiently in front of me. Waiting for me to notice it. A place where someone who isn’t handy can start off small. Slowly, at first attempting the easiest of fixes. And because now that I have the right tools and I found the perfect size screw inside an old Planter’s Peanuts jar my confidence begins to build.

That’s why this is a utility room. It’s a room where laundry is done and tools are stored but it is also a place things are fixed. Back when it was important to know how to fix stuff. Back when the solution to something breaking wasn’t to throw it away and buy a new one.

Not when you could take it downstairs to the utility room and tinker with it. Spend a few moments to figure out it’s ailment and cure. Whether it was time or resources the builder of this room wasn’t fond of waste. It’s not how he lived and he didn’t have patience for those that embraced waste. I’m sure he had many quiet chuckles to himself as he brought broken appliances and other people’s “garbage” back from the dead.

Over time he became known around the neighborhood as the person to reach out to when something broke. He’d take it downstairs and rest it on his workbench where he would examine it and figure out what made it “tick” (or why it wasn’t ticking). And, if it was possible to save it, he would. He didn’t do this for money or praise but because he loved fixing things, because it was neighborly and because he had a heck of a utility room.

– Ray



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This entry was posted on September 2, 2014 by in Life.
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