There’s something about putting your hands on all the
things you own and making the big decision: Keep or toss? Last week I made my
12th move in 31 years—no, none of a military nature—and somewhere, somehow, I
tricked myself into thinking I had downsized along and along.
A little over a year ago I generated a bit of chatter about
moving on geography-wise, and so I started eyeballing things around the house
with a more critical eye. What if someone sneaked in and absconded with the
beer can trophies from the Wednesday beer can races?
I couldn’t say. I can look at them and be reminded of 4
seasons of racing on my own boat. Do I need the cue, or are enough of the
details, the stories, the misadventures anchored deeply enough in my memory
bank?
They came with me.
Of course, I duly note my charitable giving: Who needs
three outdoor vests? Kept one. Who needs 7 pairs of reading glasses? Okay, they
were all too weak for what the eyes will have these days.
To the dump with two pickup truckloads of broken stuff,
unwearable clothes, dulled drill bits, smashed blinds, broom sans straw, e.g.,
a stick. That last one was tough.
How many dishes do I need? Wait, thirty-one family
members now live between 25 and 35 minutes from the new homestead.
Just 3 lamps to light my way. Hey, it’s just me. And the
dog, Max. He’s not much of a reader.
A friend of mine around that same time I got twitchy last
year tossed Marie Kondo’s tidying magic read onto my list. Told me it was
life-altering. Well, I was sort of on the cusp of life-altering, so why not.
Marie lost me on the books. I heard her. I tried to
internalize. Even went around mumbling “No one reading, just a doorstop. No one
reading, just a doorstop”. Couldn’t do it. Cleverly cut the number of boxes for
books this move from 42 to 36 by upsizing to 16x16x16s. Brutal weight to lift
when stacking them 4-high.
Pro movers this time around. No brainer.
Hey, this is 21st century, even for me…two
printers, two laptops, one mini-laptop, one tablet, a digital camera, and 4 extra
flip phones to be donated. Soonish.
Tools. Check, check, check, check, check, check, check,
check, check….
Small coffee pot, large coffee pot, crock pot, large
George Foreman, outdoor gas grill, small Weber charcoal grill. Staff of life
stuff right there.
Half-a-dozen scotch glasses. Hey, you never know.
Four pairs of reading glasses.
Two dozen neckties. And I’m retired for goodness' sake.
Maybe a necktie bonfire. Eight pairs of jeans. That sounds about right. Are
jeans and ties ever a thing? Never.
I may never have to buy socks again. As in never.
And the wall pictures. Good grief. I could open a gallery.
A small one, true enough, but still.
But wait, the movers had me out in 90 minutes. Had me in
in 70. Not so bad.
Oh, and I found as I was rifling through large mailing
envelopes stuffed into the buffet drawers my Hurricane Hugo pictures. Actual
photos, that you hold in your hand.
Need them to conjure up those memories? Nah, the scent of
snapped pines is still burned in my nostrils. But, I’m keeping them.
No, I don’t have a storage unit. That’s why I have a
garage. For the things, you know. No no, not those things.
The other things.
