I'm suffering from subtle stuff suffocation. (I do like alliteration). But alliteration is not the culprit. I'm running out of living space. Maybe it is a German disease. Or, who knows, it may be caused by a defective gene derived from the Rattus family, pack Rat, that is. That's the family that packs everything into its living quarters and never moves or disposes of anything.

Serious symptoms of this disease are bruised hips and shoulder caused by trying to maneuver between three chests of drawers, a double bed, two tables, two dressers, a wardrobe, three file cabinets, 20 boxes of stored things (who known what), a small circus wagon of old patterns, about 200 books, clothes, all in one room.

Now the antidote for this sickening, slattern state of affairs is to have a yard sale, so say the antidotal people. But I've furiously figured that I'm rapidly running out of real estate, as mentioned above. You see, that's just one room, the attic, or as I sometimes refer to it, euphemistically, as the upstairs.

By-the-way, in the above inventory I didn't include the stairs. I have the fanciest floral, beribboned handrail in town. I simply cannot throw away the pretty ribbons that come with potted gift plants, the frills and lace that come with corsages, the colorful cords that tie together Christmas, birthday, Mother's Day, any old day presents. So my 20-foot long handrail is decorated with an amalgamation of these lovely things, plus a few silk flowers that still have a little life in them.

I casually calculate that should I begin falling at the top of the steps, but firmly grasping the inner core of the hand rail, by the time I hurtfully hit the hard floor at the bottom of the stairs, no one will find me for days, for I'll wrapped up and be-flowered to be presented to St. Peter. No cost for any other kind of boxing.

Then, there's the bewildering basement. Paint cans, glass jars, galoshes, plunger, all of which I was honestly going to take to the basement the very next time I went down, will make such a notable noise should I fall the next door neighbors will come running to pick me up and haul me off to have glass shards removed and paint remover applied, maybe a bad, bruised brain to do something with.

Then, suppose I don't fall and walk over, carefully, to a shelf to retrieve my popover cups. They're used only occasionally, hence the basement. In searching for them I come across a chalky looking Japanese woman with umbrella figurine. Why haven't I long ago thrown it away? Well, Lou gave it to me a long time ago, and there is dusty, chalky sentiment attached. She had no Japanese decor. Neither do I. I suspect someone gave it to her and she passed it along. Nevertheless, I put it back on the shelf. I go southward along the shelf, encountering a cookie jay with a missing lid. I have to think a while before remembering why it hasn't been thrown away. Why, it is because it was the first gift Edward and I won at the first Bingo party we ever went to, maybe 50 years ago. Hmmmm, a cookie jar without a lid. No good. But I put it back on the shelf. It was an interesting form and might some day or decade hold a host of happy hollyhock tops. The unusualness of such an attractive arrangement prompt me to put the cookie jar without a lid back on the shelf. And so it goes with the worthless, won't work, wire handing basket, the shabby, charmless charm string, the heavy, harmless, handleless hammerhead . . .

REJOICE!

~Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime columnist for the Southeast Missourian.