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Normally, when I mention rescuing treasures, I’m talking about the ones I find in op shops: items from the past that have been hidden away and scrunched up to look ordinary (possibly in a misguided attempt at camouflage).  Today, however, I’m talking about treasures of my own that have been forgotten, languishing under the house, hoping, in their inanimate way, to be unearthed and enjoyed once more.

I used to have a theory about the boxes under my house: I figured that if I hadn’t missed any of the items they harboured for the past five years then I probably didn’t want them in the first place.  Last weekend, I discovered that could not be further from the truth – a whole treasure trove has been lurking in the dim and dusty (and probably spider-filled) world of Under the House and I was ridiculously excited to be re-united with them.

We’ve been busy putting stuff out as part of the whole business of moving house.  A skipload of junk went away last weekend, along with a load of goodies to the op shop (yes, sometimes I take stuff to op shops instead of taking it home with me).

Last weekend, we all headed under the house to tackle the forgotten boxes, which resulted in a load of junk on the nature strip for collection and a similar load of nicer goodies dropped off at the op shop.  The same one as the previous weekend, in fact.  Around ten percent of the items currently on its shelves probably came from our house.

In the midst of sorting out whose box was whose and dividing items up into junk or op shop piles, I found a collection of treasures I thought I’d lost forever, including my nan’s butter dish and a little dip knife shaped like a chicken.  It was like Christmas, but with more cobwebs.

Some treasures were even hiding in my kitchen cupboards, shamelessly pretending to belong to my sister-in-law when they were, in fact, mine.  Witness this scene from last night…

“Don’t forget your toaster oven,” I said to my sister-in-law.

“That’s not my toaster oven,” she replied.

“Are you sure?” I asked, prodding at it, as though this would somehow produce enlightenment.  “It’s not ours.”

“It’s not ours either,” she said and I trust her on this.  After all, she knew that the cupcake tray in the cupboard was hers and that mine was still in a box under the house.  Well, she knew the first bit; the second bit I worked out for myself on the weekend.  We don’t know who’s to blame for the toaster oven, so we’re going to let an op shop decide the matter for us.

“Well, don’t forget your hand beater,” I said, as we moved on to a new cupboard.  You can probably guess what her reply was.

Yep.  “That’s not my beater.”

I’m not going to lie: I was secretly delighted to hear that because my nan’s old Kambrook beater is not quite up to anything beyond looking like a glorious relic from the 1980s and I could do with a new one.  And it turned out I had one all along, still in its box and looking like serious business, possibly given to us as a wedding present and forgotten as I haven’t been keen on any kind of cooking until recently.

So we’ve been doing a brilliant job of taking things out of boxes, but a less fantastic job of putting items into them.  Now that our rented boxes have been delivered, we have no more excuses.  It’s time to get serious and start packing away an entire house of goods whilst desperately clinging to the flimsy strands of our sanity.

Hopefully this time I won’t chuck any treasures under the house and forget about them for the next five years.

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