Two months and two weeks (exactly) after I left NOLA thinking "I'll only be gone three or four days," I can now with certainty say . . .
. . . pretty much everything in my apartment is toast.
The visible mold goes up the walls three to four feet, so everything touching them -- like a handmade quilt from my grandmother, a comforter my mom made, my comfy sweaters, and probably the rhino picture Z drew for me years ago and the puzzles my now-dead grandfather gave me -- are infected.
My bed is infected.
Some of my books are infected.
My papers -- including family genealogy -- are infected.
The box holding my essential oils -- hundreds of dollars and years of accumulation worth -- buckled when it was lifted. Chad says the oils inside are fine. I can only hope he's right.
The box in the closet holding a blanket and slippers my mom crocheted for me is infected.
Chad took "a few" pictures he thought were OK, as many books as he could, my jewelry, the filing cabinet, some clothes he thinks are OK, and the box of oils. He's going to keep it in his garage until I come back.
Most of that may have to be thrown away anyway just to be safe. You can't mess around with mold.
Minimalist is good, right?
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