The things we carry along with us

"Moving", such as it were, has begun. The children and FemmeDommi are at a family reunion up north, so those of us left behind are taking advantage of their absence to pack (if asked, every crayon would be needed -- this way, we can filter out a lot of the broken and less-played-with stuff). They return on Thursday. On Friday, we will load the rented moving van, and on Saturday morning, early, the AffinitusDommus will set out on their new adventures in a new house, a new city, a new state. (I shall have to find a new name for them, as well, because they will be living in a complete absence of cats; pets are not allowed by the landlord.)

In the meantime, I am emptying my storage unit. With only two people in this house, we will have room in the cellar for my stuff, and room in the studio for FemmeDommi's office furniture. Also, AffinitusDommus will need a deal of kitchen furnishings at their rented house, so I'm pulling out my own, for the Texan and me to use here. We have borrowed a friend's truck, and I am single-handedly moving all my things. That is, I'm moving all the boxes and liftable furniture -- the couch, some desks and a large bureau will have to wait for Thursday when we'll have friends helping us.

Sooooo, today and yesterday I moved 34 boxes from the storage unit to the basement, as well as five pieces of light-weight furniture. All of those were carried downstairs individually, so I reckon I've climbed at least 350 steps up (and down) today, carrying weights (yeah glutes! Frankly, I ache all over). The unit, 9 feet by 11 feet by 20 feet high, is about half empty.

So, what have I been paying to store since September 2005 (and which I also paid to bring out to Oregon in late 2006)? About a third of the boxes are books. Some of these books I have missed -- an entire box devoted to multiple copies of Dorothy Dunnett novels (some of which I've had to buy additional copies of, in the intervening years). Or my copy of Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman, which I purchased again to read again last year. Or my hard cover edition of Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, which I have prevented myself from purchasing several times because, for Pete's sake, I have the hard-cover version in storage! Sadly, this also means I have not yet read that novel. Presumably it is packed away in the large, leaden, box marked, Books I Do Still Intend To Read. Someday.

Others I have not missed -- what could be in the preposterously heavy box labeled, Books - #3 - Living Room? I'm guessing that holds the picture books -- a history of rally cars (with early Mini Coopers) and I dimly recall a photographic chronology of World War I. These and a few others, although outside my usual interests, were too fascinating not to buy for Less Than $9.99 on the Bargain Table in the entrance to Borders Book Store. And maybe that box has the exhibition books accompanying the show I saw at the Uffizi in 2003? I will enjoy looking at them again, but I didn't miss not having them.

About half the boxes are kitchen stuff. Some of that is because kitchen stuff is large, and thus fills a lot of boxes. But have I needed to store twenty (nice quality) Rubbermaid food storage boxes for four years? What about the cheap pots and pans -- cast offs and filler pieces when I got them? They will be handy now, but I'm noticing the scratches in the teflon, and the permanent stains -- should I just buy some new, less toxic pans? I've got spatulas and wooden spoons and mixing bowls and three sets of measuring cups. Did I really need to keep all this?

Did I really need to own all this in the first place? But I felt a rush of pleasure to rediscover my ivory wire fruit bowl, and my Italian tea towels. Doesn't that rush -- especially when it is sustained over four years -- justify the cost? (That is, the cost of purchase and the cost and hassle of storage.) The Rubbermaid containers elicited a feeling of familiarity, but no rush. Yet, frankly food storage containers are something I use -- a lot more frequently than linen tea towels. Instead of storing them, should I have discarded the containers, necessitating a new purchase now? Is it more wasteful to have had them in the first place, when they are not something I cherish?

What about things that are of no practical use, nor are they lovely? Should I be storing the suitcases, long outdated and mostly worn out, given to me by my parents when I went to Cambridge U. in 1983? I carried the little one across Europe for three months, but it is sagging, tattered and torn, and I doubt I'll use it again. Is the sentimental value of that well-traveled gray case worth keeping it in the basement for another six months?

These thoughts dogged me today. I would park the truck next to our rose bushes, so the scent of roses overwhelmed the dust that puffed up from the boxes as I unloaded them onto the dolly. In groups of two and three, I wheeled them up the steep driveway, past the cats lying sprawled in the August sun to the side door of the house. There, each box was carried down the wooden stairs into the cellar, and stacked neatly according to label, kitchen, books, textiles, other.

These are only my things. These are all my things, the total. Every one of these things, in all of these boxes, is going to have to leave the dark, cool cellar, someday.