A Moving Experience - Sept. 2007

A Moving Experience
Tina Gordon
September 2007

Two 200-foot rolls of bubble wrap. Six large spools of packaging tape, some duct tape, strapping tape and mailing tape. Two months worth of newspapers and two cartons of plain, unprinted newspaper, several pairs of scissors, box cutters, utility knives, old comforters, used towels and a raft of throw pillows. That was the packing end of things, as I prepared to move to my new home. Now, a week into the new house, I’m seeing all that paper and packing again as I work to set up the place.

“Downsizing?” you ask. No, just trading in the old homestead for a new place, all the better to enjoy in my retirement, with a pool, hot tub and sun room. After all the packing and unpacking, I think a month-long vacation on the Riviera would have been more rewarding, and, God knows, a lot cheaper.

You have no idea how much stuff you have until you move. Women in Union County are wearing my more recent suits while somewhere in Eastern Europe, a few women are grousing about suits with shoulder pads we haven’t seen since Joan Collins and Linda Evans duked it out on Dynasty. Residents of Somerset County are buying my old books at the county library. Al Gore would salute my contribution to recycling as I dumped my old paint, turpentine and assorted poisons at “hazardous waste day,” and my videotapes went to the first Saturday of the month consumer recyclables site, along with old phones, TVs and other electronics. I left so many bags of garbage for my trash collector that I finally left a case of beer as a thank you. The dry cleaner has my hangers and the dump in Branchburg has my old lamps, snack trays and shelf brackets.

So what the hell is in all of these boxes? There are so many cartons marked “Fragile, Artwork” that it looks like the Met is opening a new exhibit. There aren’t enough walls in Hillsborough, NJ, to display all of my framed art – store bought and my own photography. Never again shall I accept a gift of candles or buy one myself, not with about a half dozen boxes of candles and holders. Same deal with picture frames. I have a lifetime supply of mouse pads, scratch pads, pads from the desk of, note cards, pens and pencils – lifetime, that is, if I live to be 150. I’m drowning in extension cords and power strips, picture hangers (OK, those will come in handy) and, as we know from last month’s essay, paper clips (I found a stray in the bottom of the closet one day; go figure).

In the course of the move I developed an obsession with boxes. Would I have enough, would they be the right size? My joy in life was finding just the right box for each category of items, and I actually kept the original boxes and packing materials for many things – from the crock pot(s) and toaster oven to the computer. I even had a box I used 13 years ago to transport the tray which holds the silverware, left over from my last move. The tray just slipped right in, happy to be getting out and about. The basement never looked so empty and the house never so chaotic.

Now, transfer the clutter five miles down the road and you’ll be in my new place, to which I moved during a power failure (picture large men carrying huge boxes down to a completely darkened basement). For that day and days afterwards, as my sister and family helped me unpack, all sentences began with “Where…?”

But I have the rest of my life to answer that question as I unpack, find things and get my life back in order because – I swear – I AM NEVER MOVING AGAIN!