If you live in a big two-story house, maybe with a walk-in attic, and move elsewhere, don’t put off until the last minute packing up all you’ve accumulated in 40 years of occupancy and nearly 52 years of marriage.
You know where I’m going.
A year ago last December wife Beverly and I, along with Angus, moved to a nice single-story home in Humboldt within a hop, skip and jump of four grandchildren. At the time, we moved appliances and furniture we needed immediately. We replaced a number of things with purchases of new, including the king-size bed Beverly long had wanted — large enough I have a pair of binoculars on my nightstand to keep track of her nocturnal meanderings.
Since we didn’t need to be out of our South Cottonwood home anytime soon, we decided to approach moving whenever the mood struck, which it didn’t very often.
That changed on Easter morning when we got an email from son Bob: “Happy Easter. I’ve sold your house.”
We still had until June 1, which we figured was plenty of time.
About a week ago reality pushed the panic button. We have to get out — and with the chore essentially falling to Beverly and I, we doubled down.
I took off three days work and by last Monday evening, “I can see the end of the tunnel,” Beverly said with great relief — until we found several boxes in the attic weren’t empty after all.
We now have the house essentially clean as a whistle, the absolute truth. Beverly insisted on mopping floors — most of them hardwood — which left the house spic-and-span for whoever moves in; the new owner plans to rent or sell the place.
Meanwhile, I spent much of my time in the garage, where I often worked on little projects — many meaningless — in a space made smaller over the years from my tendency to seldom dispose of anything — “I might need that someday,” was my justification.
To our benefit we have limited space in Humboldt and even with a storage shed — for what “I’ll go through one of these days” — I was first forced and then somewhat enjoyed stuffing more in trash bags than I would have in earlier years. Even to the point after a rummage sale we tossed much of what didn’t sell.
To our advantage, son Bob took the larger of my two workbenches and a large wooden tool chest and daughter-in-law Melanie found an old wooden post office sorting cabinet the cat’s meow. Grandson Noah, who has some of my tendencies, fell in love with two antique wooden trunks and a display case, small rewards for his lifting those things too heavy for me.
Now, all that remains is to sort through wonderful things in boxes and bags that cover half our new garage’s floor.
