You could almost hear the sound effects when I wrote about my missing file folder for the Lee family the other day. (I know at least one person then could relate to those disappearing family history files.) The stuff that adds up to a years-long pursuit of our genealogy could rival the avalanche falling from Fibber McGee's closet. I haven't told the half of it.
It was late one night, calling it quits after a long day of rearranging stacks of old file folders, when I had tiptoed past the precarious pile of unfinished work near the bookcase in my bedroom. I apparently didn't tiptoe quietly enough. Down tumbled the entire mess. What might have been partially organized earlier that evening was now certainly in no such state within the next few seconds.
Too tired to right my wrongs that late at night, I looked for a spare place to stash the mess and at least clear it off the floor. I didn't see any, a sure sign that my spring cleaning efforts were in full swing. Always handy at last-minute rescues, my husband pulled out an empty storage bin—you know, the kind made of clear plastic to remind you of how much work you still haven't finished—and we stacked the files inside. Instant clean-up solution, right?
Of course, now that I'm missing the second file folder for the Lee family, I'm certain that is its final resting place. Will I be rewarded with finally locating it as I make my way through the stacks of papers long since stored in that box? Perhaps not. But the exercise brings me to yet another opportunity to convert those old paper files to digitized records and reclaim some square footage in my office. Like Fibber McGee's continuous lament, that's a stash I need to get around to cleaning up.
One of these days.