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There’s this bookcase in my bedroom, tall and deep. It holds some of my husband’s clothing, some books for late-night reading, and a lamp. The top is handy for setting down glasses and a cup of water. I rolled over the other morning, looked fuzzily at the second shelf down and thought, “That’s not right,”

The second shelf currently holds a stack of sweaters next to a stack of t shirts. Roll over in bed, reach out and pull one on. They were still there, a little skewed from the morning shuffle. In my sleepy mind’s eye, it was wrong.

Because the Noddy books go there, books one through forty-something, getting newer towards the end. Then the Wind in the Willows, the Pooh story books, the Rupert books and a few others. That’s what belongs there.

And that’s what did belong there – back in 1976.

This bookcase sat in my grandmother’s bedroom, on the left as you went in. Her bed – the one with the pink bedspread that used to be Glenda’s – was wedged up next to it. Another bed was lined up on the other side of the room, just a couple feet away. That bed I thought of as mine, but anyone who slept over used it. Dark metal frame, flannel sheets, one of those flannel blankets with the coloured stripe at one end, and a scratchy wool blanket on top. One year Grampy installed a light on the wall above the head, with a chain to pull, so I could read until I fell asleep, snuggled under the covers.

Eventually, years later, my grandparents packed up that old house and we held on to some of the furniture. Over the year, more pieces were passed on. Most recently this big deep bookshelf was in our dining room, tucked into a perfectly-sized niche. It held the stereo and all its parts, record albums, cassettes, CDs, a small tv, Playstation and games, plus the boxed Deluxe Turntable Scrabble, too big to stow anywhere else.

We reorganized here, putting a computer desk in that niche instead, removing all the equipment and relegating the shelves to our bedroom. While wriggling it out of the room and up the stairs, I noticed the bare wood blocks tacked on the bottom. Grampy must have put them there, to keep it up off the floor. Ron smiled at the face of each shelf, covered in contact paper – a lovely plasticized wood-grain finish.”Why’d they do that?” he asked me, and I can’t quite remember until he exclaims there’s a hole or something underneath. He wondered what it is and suddenly I do remember how there are grooves in the shelves because Grampy rescued it from the old hospital where it held files or something.

So we put it in our room, where Ron keeps extra clothing on it.

The Noddy books are upstairs, on the attic landing. Some of them are in the cabinet in the foyer, with other antique children’s books, half of them, like the Pooh ones, with my name inside.

The metal bed frame is in Sarah’s room. It’s been painted white and has a new mattress, different blankets.

There was a pillow on Nanny’s bed, one she made later to brighten the place up. A scrap of the fabric is in a quilt I made.

I’m surrounded and the furniture whispers memories.

Recently, it occurred to me that I have a few readers who are in non-snowy climates. In fact, some of you may not have seen snow for years. With that in mind, I thought of how exactly moms around here take for granted the getting on of the snowsuit and the best methods thereof.

I bet you didn’t know there was a technique.

(This is the part where half the reading audience goes, “Well DUH” and the other half goes, “Huh?”)

Well, there is a technique and I have spent much time in discourse with other moms over something as seemingly simple as pant-tucking technique and whether or not removable boot liners are a Good Thing.

So find a stray child who wants to go outside, and follow along.

First, you have to start with the long johns. These get tucked into the socks, naturally. A thermal shirt, or the top part of the long johns, gets tucked into the bottoms, because who wants gapage in the middle of the World Champion Snow Angel Competition? Toss on a sweatshirt or sweater, plus a warm pair of pants. I like a nice heavy pair of sweatpants. Jeans are too stiff.

Now you get to the actual snowsuit part.

I like to put mittens on the kid first. For one, it keeps their little fingers out of things while I do the rest, and for another, the cuffs wind up tucked into the coat sleeves quite nicely. But don’t put the coat on next, oh no. There’s snow pants, and who likes to see a kid with their snowpant straps outside their coat? That’s just plain silly. So pull on the snowpants and make sure you reach up into the legs to pull down the edges of the pants underneath. Nobody likes cold shins.

Find their boots. Matching ones, a left and a right. Check for wetness inside. If they are wet and you really need to go somewhere or they absolutely positively have to wear these particular boots, and you don’t have removable boot liners that you automaticaly placed over the vents the last time they came in, I’ll explain for those who, for some do reason don’t know this, the secret of the plastic bag.

Yeah, I said it.

Wet boots? Get a plastic bag for each foot. Not a crinkly one, a nice heavy plastic shopping bag, average size. Place the foot inside. A rubber band is a nice touch to keep it all tucked in, but careful folding will accomplish the same.

Shove the foot, plastic-encased or otherwise, into the boot. Now, this is important. Make sure the pants are tucked into the boot, and the snowpants with the little elastic thingy are on the outside of the boot. Repeat for the other foot.

Next comes the hat. I bet you though that’d be last, didn’t you? Nope, put the hat on next. If you have a house full of girls, try to convince them to pull their hair back in a ponytail or something. At the very least brush back the hair and push the hat on, keeping strands off their little faces.

NOW you can put the coat on. Zip it up real good, don’t catch their neck. That hurts, you know. Pull the hood up over their hat, placing your hand on top of their head over the hat as you do so, to avoid the hat sliding down over their face.

Congratulations! One kid is ready to go outside. Now look around. Are the other kids ready or in halfway there? If so, place the Ready Kid by the door and tell them, “Don’t even think about moving!” Give the Death Stare for good effect.

Repeat all the steps for each remaining child who is unable to do it for themselves or help another one. If you’re lucky and did the litlest kid first, you might need to do only a few steps or a quick check on each remaining child.

Finally, you can open the door and push them all outside. As you are leaning against the door trying to recover and thinking wistfully of a hot beverage, resist the urge to leave your post.

For I guarantee, within 47 seconds there will be a knock at the door and you will hear those dreaded words,

“I hafta go PEEEEEEE!”