Just a few hours alone in our house is all the time needed for my furniture moving compulsion to kick in. I have this overwhelming desire to, well, move furniture. And the furniture in question is not necessarily the furniture that may need moving the most. It is simply the furniture I am looking at when the urge hits.
But today, yes today, I lifted one end of the couch and started to move it and decided I really needed to resist the urge. So, I redirected the urge and jumped into the semi-annual moving of the clothes.
You know what I mean. The summer clothes are hanging there in the closet, looking limpÖand whitish. Lots of fruit-inspired colors that just a few months ago looked bold, refreshing and wonderful now look like they might be ready to ìgo bad.î
I stood there looking at the faded days-of-summer wear and all I wanted was burgundy, gray and black. So bit-by-bit I flipped through the cotton and linen, the gauzy shirts and cropped pants and weeded them out like I would a garden if I had time to have one.
(In reality, I did have a quasi-garden this year, with lots of pots overflowing with plants and bulbs and things from which I will expect a reprise next year if I remember to shelter them somehow before the first freeze. But now, they too have lost their zip, their color fading with the long days of summer, their limbs scraggly from neglect.)
But this day I moved some of those clothes to the closet that used to be Surfer Dudeís before he moved to Oregon. As I dragged the summer wear from one end of the house to the other, I realized a few of the items needed to be gotten rid of completely since I havenít managed to wear them in about five years. It seems like last month that those items were the most fashionable new things on the racks. Now they are as old as last weekís newspaper. (Weíre under no illusion about the longevity of our product over here at your local newspaper.)
But back to the clothes. I have a hard time getting rid of old clothes because I look at the item, turn it around, sometimes slip the piece on and relive any fond memories I might have of wearing the garment. By then I have rebounded and have a hard time giving it away. I know Iím not going to wear it again. But getting rid of the garment is letting go of the memory. Not an important memory, but a snippet that will disappear without the visual prompt.
So, I stack things in an interim pile; my halfway house for discards. They are stuffed into old grocery bags (my feeble attempt at recycling) and are sent to sit in the garage for a few months before the Hubster comes in and says heís making a run to Goodwill.
ìYou want to come out and take a look at this stuff and be sure itís what you want to get rid of?î
I try not go out to the garage to witness the removal of the bags of memories.
ìNope. Canít look. Take it away,î I say and try to find something to keep myself busy in the kitchen.
I hear the garage door open and close. The car cranks in the driveway, backs out and disappears down the street. The bags are gone. The little bits of memories have left the building.
So I go back into the den, wonder how long the Hubster will be gone -- and lift the end of the couch.
Contact Judy Watts at firstname.lastname@example.org or 873-9424 ext. 220.