I've made the move, the big one. The one many of us make when all the kids have flown the coop, the house you raised them in has become too big, and you are itching to live in the house you are going to grow old in. I left my home of 21 years, got all my possessions into the three vehicles necessary to make the 300 mile move, and picked up my life to live it elsewhere.
The house I had already bought had been set up like a cozy AirBnB. The place was spotless. The bathrooms had fluffy towels, fancy soaps, and cleaning supplies. All level surfaces were carefully strewn with knick knacks, some of them valuable. There was lovely furniture arranged in all the rooms but one. A couple of beds were made for us, and made more beautifully than I have ever made a bed. Had we shown up with a couple of people and a couple of overnight bags, we would have been deliriously happy. What is better than a whole house, stuffed with lovely and comfortable items, to spend a night or two in?
Problem was, we arrived completely exhausted, having just packed up a five bedroom house the hard way, and a moving truck packed to the gills was due to unload at this lovely abode, 12 hours after our arrival.
There would be nowhere to put my stuff unless we got right to work moving the previous owner's stuff. No rest for the weary on this night.
My daughter and I spent that night, and most of the next day, frantically making room for the movers to plop an item down, often while they were carrying that very item through the door. We slid, we stacked, we piled, and we crammed as much as we could into one room, so that the other rooms had space. When there simply was nowhere else to put stuff in the house, but the truck was still half full, I started saying “Put it in the garage” to everything. Somehow, we found space for it all, tipped those movers, and shooed them off the property so we could sit a spell. All things would have gone smoothly from then on, if not for the dog.
I knew my dog was very sick. The vet at my last home was insisting that I first put my dog through expensive and invasive testing, and then put him through expensive and invasive treatment that may or may not work, or they would do nothing at all for him. I fervently hoped the dog would not croak on the trip here, and that a vet in this town would be more reasonable about treatment.
I was right on both counts. The dog survived the trip, but became much sicker right away, leaving the most horrible mess you can think of a dying dog leaving, and all over the house, my bed and the yard. All day and all night. The wonderful vet in this town discovered my dog had terminal cancer, and would be dead in a few days.
I compulsively move furniture around when I am depressed. This characteristic of mine has come in very handy. Ten days after our arrival, the dog is dead, the basement is stuffed, the garage is stuffed, and the dining room is stuffed. All these rooms are barely navigable. But I have managed to make a living room, five bedrooms, and the kitchen usable.
What next? I headed down to the basement.
Here’s a picture of the basement before I started trying to organize it, to figure out what, if any, of this stuff I wanted to keep.
Here’s a shot of the basement after I had spent several hours sorting and reorganizing:
Here are those two shots side by side so that you can fully understand the impact of my three hours of work in the basement:
Nothing has changed! It's still stuffed with stuff!
I did find some interesting things, such as a whole lot of rubber duckies; see my thumbnail image.
I hope you find my travails amusing. I sure do. Thank you for reading about them. I appreciate you all.
All the images are mine.
