Today is the day we pile seventeen years of goodies into a single moving van. Two years after we decided to move, it’s finally a reality.
Loading the truck wasn’t that big of a deal. We gave away or sold as much of the furniture as we possibly could. The heaviest item was my piano.
Getting the curved sofa out of the bonus room upstairs to give to a friend was more harrowing than anything happening this day. Well, except getting a dresser through doors that are at 90 degree angles from each other. It’s not like wood bends.
We’ve spent the past three weeks sorting and boxing stuff. The total weight of items discarded at the dump (or to the recycler) exceeds 1,500 pounds. Donations – excluding the furniture – weighs in around 500 pounds.
How does one family accumulate so much stuff?
No one will weigh the loads being moved to the new house. Surely it exceeds the combined weight of the trash and donations!
I’d like to think that this purging of STUFF has cured me of my hoarding inclinations. But I doubt that. Loading up the twelfth box of books curbs my Pollyanna outlook. (To be fair, I did donate a half-dozen boxes of books. I’m a writer, after all. Some of these books are reference materials.)
A bittersweet nostalgia follows me through the now-empty rooms of our old home. The boys pushing their cars along the floors there. Helping straiten the tuxedo for the first formal over here. Laughter during game-playing swells from the barren dining room.
Remember how we tried the Christmas tree out on every wall in the living room? Look at the mark along the ceiling. That’s from the tree that was still too tall when the boys tilted it upright after hauling it inside.
I shut the door for the last time. Goodbye, Second Place. Thanks for the great memories.
Box-filled rooms echo at the new house. How long before it feels like home?
Hello, Rotterdam Street. Are you ready for the Hughson family?