Our move from our North Country farm to our new home in the city requires more packing than we expected. We discovered that during our 37 years in this old log house we have accumulated a whole lot of stuff.
Cardboard boxes full of stuff. Wooden cartons full. Plastic storage tubs full.
Seventy-three of them so far. More waiting to be filled. Boxes and cartons and tubs, oh my!
Furniture, clothing, kitchenware, bedding, towels and washcloths, bathroom paraphernalia, throw rugs, lamps, books, picture albums, and file folders. We have barely begun the task of packing dishes and cookware, but most of the wall decorations — framed prints and photos and ceramics — are wrapped in padding and set aside.
The hand tools and power tools in the workshop are packed, along with extension cords, ropes, battery chargers, bottles of oil and cleaning solvents, work gloves, and the measuring tapes that I now need and cannot find.
The Clubhouse seems empty with all the outdoor gear boxed and bundled: boots, mukluks, waders, snowshoes, coats, hats, vests, and miscellaneous equipment. Most of my firearms and all of my shotshell and rifle cartridge reloading equipment and supplies have been sold or given away.
The retired bows and arrows mounted on the south wall and the threadbare gun cases hanging from the LP gas pipe in the corner complement the silent vault of the gun safe where a half dozen of my “family heirloom” and “memories” firearms still reside. Those — like my birddog Abbey and me — surely have a few seasons of adventures afield in our futures.
This week we asked bids from moving companies. We cautioned them our steep, curving driveway could be difficult for a26-foot truck to negotiate in March when county roads are often ice-covered. They said it would not be a problem.
We shall see.
Moving has forced us to get rid of hundreds of items that we no longer need. Several dozen plastic Star Wars action figures, for example.
But there are a few things, despite their well-used and run-down condition, that we will keep. My decrepit old recliner will make the move with us. Time is too short to break in a new one, and Abbey is accustomed to the scent of cigar smoke and spilled beer.