Six steps down, then turn right. One step and turn right again. Five steps down, turn right. Two more steps and you're at the bottom. It's one of the many quirks of a house built in 1825, this staircase. Along with the latched doors that don't exactly latch and wooden casement windows that refuse to open in humid weather (or stay open in dry times), it's just one of the things you put up with when you want to own a home with more character than the average McMansion.
Our place has one more obstacle at the bottom of those stairs: a pile of CD's. Actually, it's several piles. They're all on a small table pushed up against the wall opposite the last pair of steps. I really should put them away but I can't bring myself to do it. Lazy? No. It was my Mom and Dad's collection.
An obstacle, you say? Yes, of sorts. The discs seem to fall into three very broad categories: the first is albums that I bought for them as gifts; the second is stuff that my Mom loved, but that I hated (Il Divo? The Judds? Eeeewwweee!); the third is full of albums that have a sort of shared history. It might be something as simple as music we all enjoyed (Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash), to in-jokes (Peter Frampton - Live in Detroit, the joke being that whenever Dad saw any kind of pop music question on any quiz show, "Peter Frampton!" was his answer), to the music of artists we had seen together (Johnny Cash in Concord, New Hampshire; Pat Metheny...we saw the opening show of the Imaginary Day tour. Dad giggled at how loud it was). The obstacle is, of course, the problem of "What do I do with this stuff?"