More than I could handle

By Marilyn Brinkman of Cold Spring

Sometimes my brain thinks bigger than I can handle.

Last week, I decided I needed shelving for my quilting fabrics so I could locate my fabrics in some type of order.  When I moved to Cold Spring, I put all my fabrics into two large bins. I could barely lift them. I pulled and tugged, then had to practically stand on my head trying to locate the red fabric I needed. It was at the bottom of bin one.

My new shelves. Contributed photo

So, I went to the nearest hardware store in St. Cloud. I found just what I needed in the shelving department at the back of the store. It came in a 12- by 36-inch rectangular 50-pound box. I tried to pull the box from the shelf. Then I glanced at the weight again and thought, “How am I going to accomplish this?”

I could not lift the box. But I wanted those shelves. I hemmed and hawed, feeling like a flapping fish out of water. I looked for a sales clerk. No one was around. The aisles were bare as old bones.

In the next row of shelving was a good-looking, red-haired customer. I asked him if he would help me lift the box into my cart.

“I’d be happy to help you,” he said.

The box was like a box of Kleenex in his hands. I thanked him profusely.

“Anytime,” he said.

I smiled.

I checked out my purchase. A nice young male employee helped me get it into the car. I was a happy camper.  I drove off thinking my shelving problems were solved. I could already see my shelves holding all my beautiful, colorful fabrics.

When I parked my car in the garage, I thought I could just slip the 50-pound box into my little pink wagon and haul it up to my apartment. Not that easy, it turned out. I found myself in the same dilemma as in the store.

With all kinds of unwomanly strength, I tugged and pulled and used bad language until I had it halfway in my cart—enough to keep it balanced. I pulled the wagon up to my apartment, hoping nobody would see me. I began to wonder if this was all really worth it.

Once in my apartment, I had to get it out of my wagon—same problem. Finally, I just pulled it into my sewing room and used every muscle in my fatigued body to dump it out of the wagon.

I had my shelves. However, they were tightly fitted into the cardboard box. Another problem. I used screwdrivers, a dangerous butcher knife, scissors, and more bad words before I had the boards out of the box.

The end of my tale is even worse. I discovered my already taxed brain could not figure out how to put the dang thing together. The screws, bolts, zip-ties, and cardboard were all over the place, and I must call my son to help me put it all together.