Archeological dig

All this time at home has freed us to see what needs fixing, what needs changing, and what we can cull. Being retired is an added bonus - because we have the time to follow through. 

The past day or so, we've been tinkering with a small, narrow closet - adding and painting new shelving, adjusting some coat hooks. One set of coat hooks was set up for when our children were about three feet tall - and they have never been changed since that time, rendering them basically useless (unless you are partial to the look of floor debris clinging to the bottom of your adult coat). The shelves in the closet are (were!) - sadly - simply a series of stackable plastic bins, hastily set in place as a temporary solution right after we remodeled 30 years ago. These bins were immediately filled and overflowing with the stuff of daily living, and the original idea of adding 'real' shelves long forgotten - until now, that is. 

This closet is located right next to our side entrance, our main door to the house from the driveway; thus, these bins were the depository of all those things one takes off and gets rid off as soon as they enter the house. Coupled with a door that closes, hiding the ugly truth from regular eyes, this location became a treasure trove of forgotten artifacts. 

I set about emptying the bins themselves - what's in there? what can I toss? what belongs elsewhere? - while Tony began sawing boards for the shelving. There was so much forgotten junk in these shelves! Ugh! Suffice to say, I threw more things away than I saved; I had a small pile of donations. Lots of paper trash. (There is always so much stray paper in this house.) I was surprised by the "singles" - three separate gloves, each from a different pair, no match anywhere around; one single flip flop from a teenager (in other words, at least ten years old); one slipper...where are their matches? where did they go? why is it here and not the bedroom? I also found a pair of children's gloves. Itty bitty hands. No, they are not my grandchildren's. 

Here's a fun new chapter to this storytelling: I decided to wash this small find for future use by said grandchildren, when - I kid you not - only one small glove made it OUT of the dryer. What? Two gloves are washed and dried but only one comes out? Where did the match go? Do gloves have feelings? It's as if they cried out - 'what, you ignore me for 20 years and expect me to hang around now!?'

Sifting through the debris of this one little closet has sent me on a rampage through the house, culling, tossing, weeding, and organizing. I even spent some time in that truly forgotten space - our attic, opening up bins and clearing out clutter. It is amazing what time can do for these stored memories - yes, there are many things that I still love and want to keep, but there is a whole subset of extraneous, much less meaningful stuff with which I am easily able to part. I am excited for our trash pickup this week! 

Isn't it wild, though, how you can hold a piece of paper - say, a handwritten note, or an old ticket to a concert, or a child's drawing, and instantaneously be transported back in time - seeing where you were, hearing certain songs, remembering how you felt? 

We often joke that it's been thirty-plus years of deferred maintenance on our home...truth is, these years have flown by. Now, in this quiet 'stuck at home' interlude of the pandemic, we can finally focus. It's almost like being on an archeological dig, right? (Yay! I am traveling!) 

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I wrote this post for Slice of Life.  All participants are writing about one moment, one part of their day, on Tuesdays. Thank you, Two Writing Teachers!

SOL20 Slice #24: Moving

I am participating in the
 Slice of Life Story Challenge (SOL20).  
All participants are sharing stories about moments in their lives, writing 
 every day for the month of March 2020.
Thank you, Two Writing Teachers!

Early one morning, this enormous, long truck pulled up in front of our flat little duplex on the naval base in South Carolina, and four big, muscled men climbed out. They came into our home and started moving all our things. They wore jeans and white t-shirts. They were loud, and moved quickly and purposefully. One man had long hair, pulled back in a ponytail. One man had a beard and a pack of cigarettes rolled up in his sleeve. Their relaxed, somewhat disheveled look was so different from the Navy men that were my entire world until then.

I was five years old when they turned my world upside down. They moved all the big things first, the sofa, the headboards, the dining room table. They worked in pairs and alone, lifting furniture around the bend in the hallway, down the small front steps, and loading them into the back of the truck. One man dropped the end of a dresser he was moving, and it landed on his foot. He let out a loud "DAMN!," to which my Dad snapped - "Knock it off! There's kids around here!"

Everything was going. There were cardboard boxes everywhere, so many boxes, and they were packed up quickly, folded closed, and taped shut. The long-haired mover grabbed a doll from the floor of my bedroom, and threw it into a box he was packing. I cried "No!" and grabbed the doll in a tight hug, just before the box was closed. He smiled and began speaking to me like Donald Duck, with an "Ah, Phooey!" Dad overheard him and said, "Get to work, there's lots to do."

Now vigilant, I ran and quickly grabbed my beloved blanket from the foot of my bed. I clutched these two treasures, the blanket and the doll. I watched in wide-eyed wonder the rapid work around me. Everything was changing, everything was falling apart. These men worked all day, sweat glistening on their faces and soaking their clothes. Dad gave them cold bottles of Coke. In the end, they slammed the door of the truck closed, locked it, shook my Dad's hand, and drove away. With everything. These men just showed up and packed our stuff and ignored my protests.

I remember,
the truck came, and
everything went.

Dad promised that I would see it all again, another day. Soon. He assured me that this would be fun, that new and exciting things awaited, after our move.

All that was left was the station wagon, and it was stuffed to the brim with so many suitcases, bags, pillows, and treasures, plus five children, ages 0-10, Dad and Mom, and my blanket and my doll. These last two never left my arms. We drove up the coast, miles and miles of road. Dad and Mom drank coffee from thermoses and we ate sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, with chips. I didn't know where we were headed. I was along for the ride.

We made another home, in Connecticut. It was different in so many ways; rather than that small, flat home on the military base, we moved to a big old Victorian fixer-upper with three floors, a cellar, and a leaky, steep roof, "off-base," in town. Those first few days, we slept on the floor of the empty house, waiting for our things, watching for the truck.

Finally, it arrived, more or less. There was a small rip in the back of the sofa, a new scratch on the dining room table. Several boxes were already open, with a mish-mash of contents. I remember Dad laughing at a packed ashtray, with his cigar ashes still in it, carefully wrapped in sheets of newsprint, and he asked, "Now, what was the point of that?"

There were some things that never made it north. One box of our belongings was entirely gone, and other boxes had been picked through, with select things taken.

I had my blanket and my doll, though.

These days of dramatic change and loss are not unlike that time way back when. 
I don't know where I'm headed.
I don't know what comes next.
I am that little girl who is
abruptly,
surprisingly
moved,
to a new,
mysterious, and,
hope beyond hope,
possibly magical
place.

I've always been able to see next as better, to see hope in the future.

What do I love that's been put away in a moving box, for some unforeseeable time?
What's in a moving box that I may not see again? 
What's gone forever?
What moving boxes fill me with hope? 

What's been put away that I would go the extra mile to find?
What is the blanket and the doll that I am holding onto tightly, right now? 

What soothes me, in this in-between time?