There’s something wistful about a basement. I only remember two or three. In NYC apartment, they were disgusting. In my Grand Aunt’s country home, there was a store room of canned and jarred food. In my Air Force days, the Mom of the girl one of my friend’s was dating, was pantry store house of all array of things — neat, clean, and uber organized. Maybe I’ll have one when I eventually move to NH?
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