Suddenly one cold day I discovered a pressing need for all my iceberg stuff. All those reports and books and references and photographs. The proposals and outlines diligently prepared all those years ago. I looked in my main filing cabinet. I knew there was nothing there of interest, but it was close and easy. Nope, nothing there.
With slightly greater optimism I tried my backup filing cabinets, drawer by drawer, and actually did find one or two vaguely relevant things tucked in between the computer parts and lawnmower manuals, but nothing close to the mountain of material I knew was somewhere under that roof. Of course, I knew all along where it was, but hoping for a miracle is an essential part of the human condition. Days passed, and I glanced at the door to the attic every time I went upstairs, quickly looking away. Too cold today. Too dark right now. Pressed for time.
Finally I ran out of excuses that were good enough even for me. I took a deep, tired breath and opened the door. I picked up a huge empty box directly in front of the door and threw it on top of that pile of beds. Sidled past the kerosene heater and stepped over the pile of posters and maps on the floor. They had been all neatly rolled up in an inconspicuous corner last fall, but I unrolled them and weighted them down with books, and now that they are flat again, I realize I have no place to put them, so they will be there forever.
I tripped over a box full of skates and kicked a path through the suitcases and finally stood in full view of all those relict boxes that have been right where they currently stand since 1987 when I moved down from Canada.
I spot one under a table and pick my way over for a look. Bingo! It contains K through P of my iceberg files from Newfoundland. But it’s behind a lot of heavy stuff, so I decide to leave it there, knowing where at least one stash is. I turn carefully and scan other boxes. I open one and find what appears to be a 50-lb. collection of my father’s most useless files. Why are they here, I wonder. I pick up another box and put it on top of them, clearing a precious 2 square feet of floor space. Dust rises around me as I open the flaps. Two sketch books, barely used. A solar energy guide and a bunch of far back issues of the Journal of Irreproducible Results. Assorted detritus from British Columbia, circa 1974-9.
The next box contains a set of The Harvard Classics. I sit on it and look into the box next to it. Promising. Stuff from Newfoundland. Files, photographs, resumés. After 2 or 3 good sneezes I pick up this trove and head for the door, being careful not to step on the poster pile, but triggering a box slide on my way out. There is only one clear flat surface downstairs that is also relatively free of cats. It is the floor on the way to the bathroom.
I drop the box in front of a chair and start sorting through its contents. There is a fat photocopy of an obsolete software manual. Out. There are many many notices of seminars and memos describing administrative procedures and changes from a place I left in 1986. Why are they here? There are letters about all kinds of things. I read them and relive the joys and frustrations of long-dead undertakings. There are jokes I had taped to the door of my office, and letters from a lunatic who thought I was going to become a Lutheran and go live with him in the Yukon. There is actually some iceberg stuff.
When I am done, the box is empty and I am surrounded with piles. One of the larger piles is about 2 inches of empty file folders that were interspersed among the other stuff. Why did I keep a 2-inch pile of empty file folders? Now there is no clear flat surface in the house. The iceberg pile is small, but pithy. I square it up and leave it there. I move the memos and the computer manual into the recycling pile. It is suppertime. Maybe I’ll bring down another box tomorrow.
