Every Saturday morning my father hands out jobs, and nobody escapes. My sister shakes the (11) in the yard until the dust is gone. My brother empties the (12), throws out anything older than a week, and wipes the shelves. My own (13) is the kitchen floor, which takes almost an hour. Father himself repairs whatever has broken during the week; his tool (14) lives under the stairs and holds everything from a hammer to a small (15). By noon the house smells of soap, and we sit down to lunch feeling oddly proud of such ordinary work.
Almost every home has one drawer that no one can explain. Ours holds a ball of (16), three dead batteries, and a pair of (17) that cut nothing but paper. There is a spare (18) from a cupboard door that fell off years ago, a phone (19) that fits no phone we own, and half a (20) of birthday candles. Twice a year my mother threatens to throw the whole drawer away, yet she never does. Sooner or later, she says, one of those useless objects turns out to be exactly the thing we need.