If you recall, the last post about the Miracle Bayou Tree house was almost a month ago. It was about the special delivery of Mother’s player piano to our new home. And then nothing from me about the new house.
The reason for not posting is that I’ve been struggling with the move. We are now living in the new house. It is wonderful–clean, bright, airy, comfortable, rat-free. But why have I not been able to post about the move?
Since I’m not a psychoanalyst, I can’t exactly tell you why that is. I could hide behind the stress and worry of the April Deepwater Horizon explosion and resulting pollution of the Gulf of Mexico and the knee-jerk cancellations causing loss of business and income for Camp Dularge during (what should have been) the peak season for fishing camp rentals. However, I feel more like it has something to do with letting go of the old.
Since I left home for college, back in the days when Bad Company was the newest band, The Captain and Tennille got married while Cher and Sonny got divorced, I have never lived in my parent’s home again. I think I can count eleven moves since I graduated college; and none of them bothered me as much as this move–the twelth.
The reason? Well, it’s not the distance–only to the backyard. It’s the time–14 years we lived in that house–twice as long as anywhere else. It’s the smallest, darkest, dankest, smelliest, rattiest place I’ve ever lived, but it’s the one place I’ve lived the longest since I graduated college.
When we first moved in, there was only one bedroom, so the three older kids stayed in there, while The Captain, Miah, and Termite and I slept in the living room. Yep, we had our dresser and chest of drawers in there, too. After two years of that, we were able to expand, adding a bath and three bedrooms by way of attaching another mobile home. All told, we ended up with more square footage than we’d ever had.
Along with 1500 square feet and 14 years comes a lot of, well, for lack of a better word–JUNK. And it’s junk that can’t come with us to the new house. We moved the essentials into the new house and started settling in. With less square footage here, I have to pick and choose what comes with us. All the rooms are smaller. I even have less kitchen counter, cabinets, drawer, and pantry in the new house.
Downsizing is hard. Don’t let anybody tell you differently. I hadn’t realized what a junker I had become. Go easy on me here. all you Don Aslett fans and clutter haters. This has been, and still is, a very emotional time for me.
For the past three weeks, every time I go into the stinky, hot, cluttered old house, determined to tackle a task, I get overwhelmed. I can pack one box, bring it to the new house; but when I go back, I look around and see all the things that were part of our lives for so many years and I can’t make myself deal with the stuff. I end up crying. It’s happened three times so far.
So today, with a positive mindset, I decided to publicly admit my idiosyncrasy and let you see that my head is all screwed up (meaning: I should be thrilled about the new house and not crying over the old.) and apologize for making the move into our new house anti-climactic. In so doing, I hope to release myself from the chains that bind me and be able to move forward and deal with the junk, let go of the old and allow the house to be demolished. Secondly, I determined to take small steps and get three items out of the house and not force myself to go back if I didn’t feel I could. That is what I did, and that is what I’ll share with you next.
To be continued with a picture post . . .