We have reached a compromise – or so we have been told. It’s now safe to resume packing. All systems go. 251 boxes later and rooms are starting to echo. Walls look a little more bare. Boxes are getting more difficult to fill with just one designation. Suddenly, I’m faced with the nitty gritty of moving. The stage I crankily call “crap packing.”
We have ten “zones” for box designation: living room, kitchen, dining room, upper bath, bedroom, work out room, dude room, utility room, garage & office. Nowhere in the plan is there a room called, “useless sh!t I haven’t seen in seven years” or, “I have no idea what this is but there is no way I’m parting with it.” Letters from strangers who weren’t always that strange, postcards from places I’ve never been, newspaper clippings of faded interest, road maps from before I was born, pictures of places I don’t recognize, mixed tapes from people I don’t know, buttons, beads, baubles. Bullsh!t I said I would do something with and never did. What do I do with this stuff? What won’t I do? It’s utterly amazing the things I have unearthed.
But, for all it’s craptabulousness I am unearthing priceless memories, too. The Paint the Town Red, White & Blue trip mom, sis and I took to New York after 9/11. The orphan Thanksgiving I hosted in New Jersey. Thanksgiving in Quogue with ancient finery and Don’t Touch Anything attitude. My penpal from Africa’s first letter where he states he is 16′ tall. My sister’s graduation. My graduation. My first ‘date’ with kisa. The Early Bird luncheon where I was crowned Queen of the Court. Even sad memories. A friend’s slow decline into alcoholism. Another friend’s suicide note. The journal I kept after dad died. The car accident. The divorce. The miscarriage of twins. Yet. And yet, for all the memories there is a sense of promise. Change of name. Change of address. The keeping of old friends and their letters. All these memories make up my life as it was, as it is, and how it shall be.
So for now, I crabily crap pack. With a smile.