The Blah House

The charm of this apartment is disappearing, pouring day by day into drab cardboard cartons. We're having real movers this time, quelle luxury, but I wanted to pack myself, didn't want the movers going through everything, wanted not just all the books that are on that shelf to be packed together, but rather all the books that ought to be on that shelf. Wanted even the half-used homemade soaps (not homemade by me -- the one batch of soap I tried to make turned out to be dish detergent) to be lovingly wrapped. Wanted to be sure anything dear and personal remained dear and personal.

So I began weeks ago, scouting boxes every time I went to the store and schlepping them home and up four flights of stairs. Or, whenever possible, getting one of the boys to schlep them up four flights of stairs in exchange for a ride somewhere. Seems fair. (And last week, visiting in San Francisco, I found myself several times in stores gasping, "Ooh! A box!" before I realized I needed boxes in Denver, instead. Finally David offered, "Well, if you want it we could break it down and you could pack it home.") As I recall, the first three or four large cartons were filled with games and puzzles that had been hidden on shelves behind the couch anyway so the place looked pretty much the same except for the three or four large cartons in front of the cats' bed and toybox. I cheerfully emailed David and told him the games and puzzles were all ready to go and he cheerfully congratulated me.

Then I began on the books. My walls are lined with books, I might mention: I live in my own library and I love it that way. Books and bags full of all sorts of yarns and a nicely-stocked tiny kitchen, a writing nook in the bedroom, a corner with a tv and a collection of movies in the living room, a fireplace. Pictures everywhere of my kids and grandkids. It's been two years in 620 sq ft in a third floor apartment in Denver, and my only complaint has been inadequate windows to open when I want to feel real air, which is most of the time. Well, that, and the thousand miles between me and David in San Francisco, and that would be why everything is going into boxes and we have real moving men coming.

But I digress, which is what I do best and why I still have three and a half shelves of books to go. And two sets of dishes and everything in the kitchen except the baking pans and pretty much everything on the walls and the contents of all the various little cupboards.

And the mountains of boxes, however tidily I try to keep them, have taken over. I have exactly (and I mean exactly) enough clear space in the living room to do my yoga sessions, with my head gently bumping the sewing machine and my toes brushing one of the boxes of puzzles.

Two weeks and four days.

It's sad to think of moving away from the three kids who live here, and from Micah's little family. They're all adults and no one has lived with me for three years now so it's not like I'm abandoning them, but it's still sad. This will be the first time in 34 years that I haven't had any of my kids around, and that's quite a jolt. But there's no 'living near the family' as the nine of them are in five different states, and we'll be able to visit all of them often, which helps.

Still.

I have a lot of acquaintances here, a handful of actual friends. I'll miss the actual friends. I have a job that I find it annoying to need to have, but it's not really all that disagreeable. I've had worse. I hope the next job will be at least this "okay." This is a little scary, but it will be all right.

Still, again.

This move, I find, is rather like a pregnancy: although I very much want what comes at its completion, being at last with this man I've been in love with for more than four years and a whole lot of airports, I dread the pain of separation here. But the nearer that moment comes, the more uncomfortable it becomes to stay as is. I'm almost to the point I reached with each of the kids -- anything, anything, I can do it, let's just have this part over with and get on with the happy adventure.

So here I sit alone in a cardboard maze, clutching out what I hope will be enough books to get me through the rest of my time here and to the unpacking in San Francisco, with three unfinished knitting projects stuffed in my bag lest my fingers not have something useful to do (oh, and I can knit at work, which has definitely been one of the perks), packing a box here and a box there and remembering how nice the house in California feels, how we're rearranging rooms and making ourselves a fresh start at 58 and 62.

Wondering how that little house in the middle of the City is going to deal with it all. I think it's going to be surprised and happy.