Earl and I went to a furniture store today to order dining room chairs, which will arrive in about four weeks. As I was bonding with the owner of the store, determining what finish was appropriate for the new chairs, and handing over my American Express card to take a severe hit, Earl disappeared.

He’s prone to doing that when we shop because boredom sets in for him long before it sets in for me. Fortunately, the store had a little holiday buffet with cookies, chocolate covered pretzels, bon bons, and the like. So Earl was well entertained as he waited for me.

I finished our transaction and prepared to leave; that’s when I began looking for Earl. He wasn’t over there and he wasn’t back there either. Suddenly I saw this little arm waving, not frantically but gently; and I found Earl sitting in a leather recliner. He looked peaceful.

Now we’ve been studying recliners for some time now, thinking that possibly we’d replace the one he inherited from his parents when they passed away. That one is rather bright red and has seen better days. But, until now, Earl has been emotionally attached to it.

I approached Earl and the leather recliner, assuming he was just biding time. When I got within hearing distance I heard him say, “I really love this chair.”

Revelation!

We have bought more than our share of chairs together, but I have never heard him say, “I really love this chair.” It’s more like, “If you like it, then buy it.”

It was my turn to say the same thing. He hesitated and asked questions about the leather and its durability; but in the end we bought the chair. And a handsome chair it is too. On top of that delivery is free of charge.

We went home and I stood in Earl’s office, looking at the red recliner and imagining the new one in the same place. I must admit it will look smashing. In addition, Earl’s grandson has always wanted the red recliner; so this turns out to be his lucky day as well as Earl’s. I’m thrilled.

A week ago today we hauled the last of our possessions from our old house. I had wondered what might be the last item to leave the building, and it turned out to be some summer tablecloths that were hidden in a rarely used drawer. I probably wouldn’t even have missed them, since summer is a long way off.

Life is slowly returning to a normal routine. I’ve played piano and made it to the gym this week. Even signed up for swimming lessons. But there are still boxes in the garage to contend with. Yesterday, I lined them around the perimeter so that we could finally park our cars inside. In doing so, I counted them. It wasn’t a good idea.

There are twenty-seven to go. It’s true some must wait to be emptied until we get the additional shelving built for our office supplies. A few others contain books that are waiting for the new bookcase to show up. And at least two boxes contain framed photos of our family that await their designated place on a wall.

The rest are more problematic. I believe most came from Earl’s old office or from the various closets in the old house where he squirreled his possessions away. Yesterday morning, for instance, he asked me if I knew which box contained his long underwear. Today, he wondered which one held his credit card that used to live in the top drawer of a desk we sold. I can picture both items, but honestly I can’t pinpoint the box itself. And opening all of them will mean they’ll spread once again across the garage floor, undoing my parking efforts.

I’ve heard the old adage that if you don’t use something within a year, you should just pitch it. I won’t be surprised if this is the fate of some of the boxes currently insulating our cars from the cold.

Done. Over. Finished. Accomplished. Completed. History.

Well, only the part about moving out . . . not the part about moving in. Our furniture is in place, and some of our artwork has found walls to hang on. Our garage is currently a staging area for boxes and more boxes, and we’re probably another week away from finding a place for all our possessions. But I have a new axiom: “No box will come inside unless we know where we’ll put the contents.” And, since we have more contents than we have space, I suspect we’ll end up pitching more “stuff” before it’s over.

It doesn’t matter. Both Earl and I have commented how great it is to be downsizing.

About the time we moved into River House and began our era of acquiring, my aunt and uncle began the downsizing process themselves. Only they had lived in their home thirty-eight years. They spent months ridding themselves of the collectibles of those years before putting their house on the market. Then they spent more months waiting for their condo to be finished, and finally moving in. I remember conversations with them about the work involved, but I didn’t realize how much work it was. Now I do.

In an unguarded moment, I mentioned to someone that I don’t ever want to move again. Chris was stunned, because he knows I actually enjoy the moving process. He said he was noting this date on his calendar. I think what I meant, however, was that I won’t be ready to move again in the near future.

It’s Friday the Thirteenth, but I’m not superstitious. At the same time, I did check the origin of the superstition in Wikipedia and learned it can be a day of either good or bad luck. It’s just that the bad has received more attention.

For us, regardless of the date, it was a good day. We were out of our old house this afternoon and I handed the keys to the new owner’s Realtor® at 4 PM. Then, for one last time, I drove down the hill that leads to the road where we’d lived for almost ten years. Shadows gathered to watch and the sun waited for me. I pulled into the circular driveway to find Mike, our lawn care guy, loading a riding mower into his truck.

“Do you have a key?” I asked.

“No, I put it inside the house and locked the door at 3:59.”

“No matter,” I said. “I didn’t come to check on you; I can to see the house one last time.”

Mike likes to talk; and I really didn’t want to chat. So I wandered off around the back and noticed there wasn’t a single leaf left on the deck. The windows sparkled, and the roses were secured with Styrofoam cones for the winter. The hydrangeas were ringed with chicken wire to keep hungry rabbits at bay. And the garage was swept clean. Mike had done his best to the end, and I’m hoping the new owner keeps him on.

I walked out to the dock and stared at the river. It wasn’t really the last time, since Earl and I still own the lot next door to the house and we can came and go whenever we please. As memories flooded my eyes, I was struck that we’d come full circle. Years ago Earl bought this lot. Then we bought the house. And now, we’re back to the lot.

In the interim, Earl and I became the family’s oldest generation as we buried parents and saw great-grandchildren come into the world. We became more conscious of the work involved in a big house. And we became increasingly aware of our own mortality. Things like dreading winter, going to bed earlier, and concern over falling crept into the back of our minds. It was time to go.

As I returned to my car, Mike was still tinkering.

“You gonna miss this place?”

I nodded.

“Yeah, I would to,” he said.

I’m not sure, but I think I saw Mike’s lower jaw quiver as he turned toward his truck. I got into my car and headed out.

I’m hiding in Panera’s Bakery taking advantage of the free WiFi, since our Internet connection at the new house is still five days away from going ‘live.’ I’m also hiding from the workers at our new place who are installing custom closets, fixing the dryer, and starting to hang pictures. And I’m definitely hiding from all those boxes in the garage.

We hand off the keys to the old place tomorrow at 4 PM. I’m not sure how I’ll feel when the actual moment arrives. But, right now, I’m eager to have all our possessions and all of my attention in one place again.

We received the offer on our old house the middle of July, and now we’re into the middle of November. So for four months, houses have been front and center in our lives. I even gave up piano lessons temporarily, something I’ll never do again, since I knew there’d be little time to practice. I gave up manicures and cut back on visits to the health club. Stopped buying the Sunday Chicago Tribune and practically forgot how to cook.
And Christmas? I usually have my shopping done by now; this year I don’t even have a list made out yet.

As for blogging, I haven’t commented on the political scene, since I have no idea what’s going on. (They passed health care reform, didn’t they?) I haven’t talked about reading or writing or anything except how we spent the sixty days we were granted as an alternative to moving twice. And, should I get the urge to move again maybe it will provide a reminder of all the work involved.

The cleaning crew is at our old house, wiping and erasing any trace that Earl and I once lived there. Hiring a cleaning service was one of the conditions we agreed to as part of the ability to stay in the house sixty days after closing. Even though the new homeowner benefits, there is something cathartic about it for me.

One of the cleaning ladies found the salt and pepper shakers that match my snowman dishes. They were tucked in the back of a drawer and got overlooked in the packing process. Another cleaning lady found the missing piece to the downstairs refrigerator.
And a third got a built-in desk cleaner than it had ever been in our tenure.

All this was a far cry from how we found the house on our own Move-In Day in 2000. There was dirt everywhere, as if the owners before us left town in a hurry. That was when I hired Two Blondes and a Bucket to make the place somewhat ready to receive our stuff. And it was Two Blondes and a Bucket who made the place pristine today.

I can honestly say that all the people we hired for the lawn and the sprinkler system and the snowplowing were with us a long time too. Going forward our lawn will be mowed and the grass sprinkled and our walks shoveled, courtesy of the condo association. So it’s the end of an era for others as well as for Earl and me.

We are out – well, almost – of our old house and moving like brushfire into the new. No matter how organized you are, there comes a tipping point in moving where everything gets ahead of any well-thought plan. That point is when the movers arrive at the new place and are eager to unload their truck. (Unloading takes about half the time as loading.)

I stood in the entry and barked directions. “Couch there. Green chair in the master bedroom, far corner. All boxes in the garage.”

I have been living among boxes in the old place for four weeks, so Earl and I decided we would have all packed boxes put in the garage and bring them into the house one or two at a time in the hope of feeling as if we were more settled than we actually are. I’m not sure it’s going to work, but it made life easier for both the movers and me in the moment.

Then there was my piano. Four men brought it into what will be called the Music Room. They had dismantled it, while I disappeared, at the old house. And, since they came highly recommended as virtuoso piano movers, I assumed they could reassemble it at the new house without having a screw or pin left over. Once again I disappeared until I was summoned to give my approval on the final placement.

Then the men left, and I changed clothes to attend the Executive Professional Women’s Association meeting. At first I wondered what had possessed me to agree to attend, but actually it was wonderful to discuss something other than moving plans.

It comes down to this: our last night in our old home. The movers come tomorrow at 10 AM and begin the final disassembling of life as we knew it here.

It was a great life. Not necessarily filled with dramatic accomplishments or financial successes or accolades from the outside. At the same time, this home was a place where Earl and I solidified our relationship, where we agreed that – even though we don’t see eye to eye on politics or religion or how to approach things – we were compatible in other things that matter. Like honesty, punctuality, faithfulness, dependability, and respect for each other. And laughter. We laugh at the same things, which is really important.

For the rest of the evening, I’m going to sit in front of the fireplace and read insignificant material. I’m going to stare at the glow of the false embers and remember the good times. And I’m going to roam the house one more time, taking note of the landscape lighting here and there, the shadows that play counterpoint. Then I’ll head to bed, feeling my way in the dark down the hall and into the bedroom where Earl will be stretched out, warm and relaxed. I’ll curl up next to him and smile, knowing we’ll do the same thing tomorrow night in our new home.

It’s more of the same. More packing and tossing and packing and tossing. I guess that’s what happens when you’re moving from a big house to a smaller one. There are so many more decisions to make about what to keep and what to discard, about what will look good in a small home when it was designed for a large one, about how to cull family treasures and gifts without offending anyone.

I’m reminded that when we moved in this house we did it piecemeal. We owned the house two years and just came on weekends, where we survived with the minimum of furniture. But then we decided to move here lock, stock, and barrel and fill the place to its maximum capacity. It took us eight years, but we did it well.

We came from a condo which is almost the exact size of the one we’re now moving into. So it isn’t as if we haven’t lived in a smaller space before. Yet, I think we’ve grown accustomed to big, spatial, no end in sight. It reminds me of Frederick Jackson Turner’s law of ‘manifest destiny’ wherein our country was ‘destined’ to expand from border to border. In fact, there was a belief at the time that this expansion was divinely ordained.

I’m not sure I accept Turner’s theory when it comes to colonial expansion, but I can certainly see it at work on the personal level. As long as Earl and I hadn’t contemplated moving, we continued to buy, save, and hoard with great enthusiasm. We knew we had ample room. We didn’t consider the future.

But now the piper exacts payment. We must choose what we’re taking with us and cut ties with the rest. It’s been an ongoing process since we first sent many items to auction a month ago. It continues to plague us. Even this morning we were still debating a couple items and whether they would make the final cut. In the end, if we’re in doubt we’ll bring the questionable item along and make the ultimate decision on site.

Today was Kitchen Move-In Day. Yesterday, Linda and Dave showed up, even though I’m sure they’re grieving the loss of their grandchild. Still, they came to work, and all I can assume is that work makes for solace in this situation.

So Linda and I packed the kitchen at the old house and moved the boxes to the new. Then we unpacked everything and put it away. This is huge. It means our kitchen is set up, and we can begin to function. We can actually get off the intravenous feeding known as fast food and begin to eat like normal, health-conscious human beings. Well, at least one of us can.

At the end of the day, I suspect Dave and Linda went home to healthy food, while Earl and I stopped at Applebee’s because we’re still living between this and that. Our pots and pans are at the new house, while our appetites are still at the old one. And the spray can of Pam® is nowhere in sight.

He ordered a Reuben while I chose tilapia with rice and broccoli. I must admit the tilapia was delicious, but I must also admit the bite I took of Earl’s Reuben was equally delicious. Which probably goes to show that Applebee’s can please a variety of culinary palettes, even if it’s described as ‘bar food’.