There is a law in the affairs of men — and women too. Not that type of affairs. Get minds out of gutter — that dictates that whatever you carry from place to place will end up being things you don’t even.
You know exactly what I mean. You start with good intentions: my clothes, his clothes. Open this first. Open that last. Don’t lose the baby, toss the bathwater.
But as the last frantic days of moving happen, you find yourself with a bunch of things where you go “I don’t even.”
This usually means “I don’t even know why I have this/where to put it/what the heck.”
The current bunch of “I don’t even” is sitting on an unopened box across from me. It consists of: A Mickey mouse statuette made of plastic plated with silver that a friend of my parents gave one of the boys, and which the boys treasured. Or one of them did. I suspect the boys don’t even remember it, but I don’t even. As in, if I toss it, will the kids miss it? If I save it in case of grandkids…. there will never be grandkids. If– Like that.
There’s also an embroidered doily. I have no idea where it came from. My side or his? I have crochet doilies from grandma, but I don’t remember her embroidering anything. Like me, she did crochet while too tired to do other things/bound to bed or chair, and not wanting to sleep. Embroidery? Maybe when she was younger. I don’t remember. Also a pile of tatted (I THINK) handkerchiefs from Dan’s step great grandmother, aka, my father in law’s auntie-grannie. As in, his grandmother died of consumption after birthing 7 kids, and the husband married her older, spinster sister, which, to quote my late mother in law “must have spent her life till thirty something making handkerchiefs.” To be fair, most of those disappeared when MIL moved to a care facility. I suspect they were sent to a charity store, unless someone had the foresight to put them on ebay. All I have is a little pile, lawn, with very fine needle work, getting more ragged every time we move. I meant to ask MIL for the rest, and had a vague idea of making curtains out of them. Though, judging by the things that younger son saved as I was about to donate and trash, which he says sold on ebay might just replace his car, I might have no idea what things are worth for other people. Or what should be done with them.
Anyway, this pile will grow, and it’s usually useless things that I have no idea what to do with, so I shove them in a drawer and the survive another day. (I wonder if younger son wants to sell the statue of Mickey?)
Then there’s the things that have been good and useful for years. Or at least pleasing for years. But don’t fit the new place. Like…. I have a triplane. The Red Baron novel that’s been waiting 20 years. It’s a kit. It hangs over my desk. Except here the ceilings upstairs are seven and a half feet. Unless I want younger son to run into it, repeatedly (and he will) that needs to be retired. Honestly I should throw it away. I just bought a little hanging model which will do, but what do I do with the old? I don’t actually have the courage to just throw it out. Maybe I’ll ask the guys to do it. It’s looking… bedraggled. And the novel not written, yet.
And there’s the things I left behind that I still mourn. Most of them probably stupid. Like there was this set of old blinds with no center, that we bought at a garage sale sometime in the eighties. I made lace insets for them. It was a thing in the eighties.
When we moved from Columbia, I left them behind. I hadn’t slept in 24 hours. Not a house I move into that I don’t think “That would be so useful here.” Unfortunately no one sells them (on purpose) because it was an eighties thing. (Though it should be coming around again any time now.)
Or the wreath made of calico stuffed leaves, in red orange and yellow that my host mother gave me back in the eighties. As we were driving out of Columbia, I realized it was still on the door, but it was too difficult to go back and rescue it and where would we put it? I mean the car literally had no space for ANYTHING more.
It’s stupid to lament it. It would be dead and ratty now. But I do.
Then there’s the novels. Oh, not the paper ones (though I should re-cull some of them too. The novels I’ve been carrying inside my head. The oldest being now…. 44? Really?
They must get written. That I’ll be dealing with soon.
But for right now, I’m unpacking and going “I can’t even.”
Before I go back this weekend to finish and stage the Colorado house, where trust me, I can’t even.
Bear with me. I can see the end of the tunnel. It’s probably an oncoming train. And I have no room for it in any drawer.