Wolfie
What I learned from my kids’ favorite puppet
Three years ago, I found myself alone in the basement of the home I had owned for the past 26 years in Woodstock, New York.
It has come to this — the time to empty it out and get ready for the new owners, nice people from Brooklyn who paid cash and apparently had no need for five broken CD players, eight boxes of National Geographic magazines, moldy pillows, and more than two and a half decades of stuff that should have been taken to the dump long ago.
The basement was familiar to me. Very. I had been down there many times before, me the furnace-adjustment guy, the sump-pump dude, the dead mice finder, the humidifier man, not to mention stasher of way too many things that had seen much better days.
My wife, God bless her, was in Mexico, my kids out of town, our super dog, Chili (such a gooood boy!) gone too soon — which left you know who in the basement poking through boxes and boxes of stuff that seemed to go on forever.
When I got to the 20th box, I saw something I will never forget, one of those permanently etched-in-the-mind moments that might have made a good hieroglyphic — something…
