(Originally posted October 27, 2011;
reposted here with minor edits)
reposted here with minor edits)
Something’s happening here. What it is involves numerous containers made from woven plant fibers.
These are called baskets, and they have proliferated in nearly every room of the house.
It started innocently enough. A pile of semi-related stuff would form and, voila, suddenly there it was all gathered up tidily together in a basket. Lovely.
While for some the mantra of the day is, “There’s an app for that!” My wife’s is, “I’ve got just the basket for that!”
These woven containers are on shelves, on the floor, and even hang on the wall. Some are heart shaped. Most are rounds, oblongs, or rectangles. And they are of multiple sizes.
They hold cards, food, trash, clothing, and more.
Items I kept on a nightstand near the bed are now neatly tucked away in a small heart-shaped basket. A reedy reminder of my wife’s love.
On one side of the bathroom sink is a manly metal basket with my items in it, and on the other side is a larger, natural and more pretty basket with her stuff.
We have baskets that act as trash cans and one that is a clothes hamper. Although, for some reason, larger woven containers, while they look just like big baskets, are usually referred to as wicker. This is a code I don’t understand. A basket by any other name is wicker? Whatever.
I’m really not too opposed to all these baskets being woven into the fabric of our life.
The organization they offer appeals to my own sense of orderliness; a place for everything and everything in its place.
I think I inherited my own bent toward tidiness and order from my German parents. Oh, wait, my parents weren’t German. Guess it’s just my slight case of OCD. Although my dad did rigorously maintain a very neat pegboard of tools that I was only too happy to rearrange, usually by not putting them back where he had had them.
God forbid that any of my tools end up in a basket! That would be a basket too far.
Otherwise, I’m okay with the basketizing of our home. I have to admit, though, there are a couple that have no clear purpose as far as I can tell. But I do know better than to try to move them.
As a kid, I remember my mom having a sewing basket – I think – and maybe a couple more. She did have these plastic boxes with lots of little plastic drawers she kept her sewing stuff in. Dad favored empty coffee cans.
But baskets are good things.
They’ve played important roles in biblical history. Moses was set sailing on the Nile in a basket. The crippled man was lowered through a roof to be placed before Jesus for healing. Twelve baskets were used to collect left over bread after thousands were fed from only a couple of loaves. And Paul’s life was saved through his being lowered out a window in a basket.
So I cannot begrudge baskets in my home. They do fit into the “green” lifestyle trend making us cutting edge in that regard.
There are many baskets-in-waiting in the basement that I know will eventually make their way upstairs. They’re stacked down there like little viney aliens. And I swear they’re reproducing.
My wife reminds me that you can never have too many baskets. I can't complain. I say the same thing about books.
She’s been talking about how we need to make plans for our deaths. I wonder if they have a basket for that? It does rhyme. But I’ll need one bigger than a handbasket because I’m not going there, if you know what I mean.