A Hoardistry Reckoning
Moving, I've discovered, is less a change of address and more of an archaeological dig through the ruins of your own questionable life choices. It begins innocently enough with a few boxes (okay, a lot of boxes), packing tape.
“This will be easy-peasy,” I naively declared one afternoon. That, my friend, was the first lie. The second: “We don’t have that much stuff.” I'm still shaking my head on that one.
By hour two, I realized I'm not a person who owns things. I am a curator of artifacts in a museum called The National Hoardistry of Questionable Necessities. Every drawer opened is an exhibit: “Ah yes, the 2009 Charging Cable Era—note how none of these fit any device currently in existence. Yet, I still possess them.” Or "I had no clue I own nine spatulas and not one is like the other."
As for the packing ... well, that became a philosophical exercise. I'd pick up an object and ask, “Do I need this?” In an instant, my brain replies, "Yes … because if society collapses, this single bent whisk and the ancient Windows 3.1 computer I found might be the only keys to survival.” Into the box they go.
Then come the treasures: The memories of a long-lost photograph, a few dusty unlabeled VHS tapes from the late 1980's, a child’s drawing labeled “Mommy” that looks suspiciously like a potato with hair, and a roughly child-made, non-labeled orange clay fish with wild blue eyes. In a micro-second you're sitting on the floor, crying like you've just watched the end of a sad movie, except the movie is your own life and the popcorn is a stale bag of Cheetos found in the back of a cabinet.
Let’s talk about loading the trucks and trailers. First off, always rent a box truck. We did not. Why? Because this was going to be "easy peasy", remember? Anyhow, this event becomes an Olympic sport of its own, featuring “Box Tetris: Advanced Level” and “Recliner Wrestling: Heavyweight Division.” And somehow everything I packed with confidence now looks suspiciously unnecessary, just ask my sons.
In the end, my "easy-peasy" turned into a full-blown hoardistry reckoning. Bags upon bags were tossed. Sacrificed. Sent to dumpster heaven. I waved goodbye to items I once swore I could never live without, only to realize—I can. I absolutely can live without the hoard.
Though maybe, just maybe, I'll keep the bent whisk. You know. Just in case.
Blessings,
Linda
“Apparently, archaeological digs start at home.” ~~LM









