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.