BUFFALO LIGHTS: Maryland to New Mexico – Part II, Chapter 5, “Moving Hell”

Another BUFFALO LIGHTS chapter for theDigital Potlatch!

The chapter below deals with what it felt like to try to get ready to move all the way out here from Maryland. I still can’t believe everything we had to do, and all the things we sacrificed. It was a wild and crazy time, and the consequences are still unfolding. I doubt we’ll ever recover, in fact, but then none of you will ever recover from your lives, either, if you get my drift. That was sort of the whole point: if not now, when?

To access preceding chapters and the introduction, please visit the Buffalo Lights category page. (The official synopsis is here.)

Part II: New Mexico Project

Chapter 5: Moving Hell

Boxes everywhere! Boxes, boxes, boxes.

Some sealed with tape, some not, some waiting to be taped together, some half-filled and waiting for more things to be added from the slippery piles of mixed trash and precious possessions underfoot. Every 10 minutes I lose the tape dispenser and big black marker as they merge with the flotsam. Panic! A hundred different uncompleted tasks vie for my attention. No rest! No time! Panic! Panic!

“This is just impossible! But they’re coming…”

“We have to keep that! Don’t you dare throw that away!”

“This [censored] tape keeps [censored] [censored] and I can never find the [censored] end!”

“O.K., I’m not moving the computer to the kitchen table. There’s no damn time. I’ll either get my desk into the pickup or leave it!”

“I’m worried about you…”

“O.K., we’ll just give that to Katy and Jeff or sell it to the flea market guy. Or dump it!”

“Oh no! I just filled this box up and sealed it, but the bottom wasn’t taped!”

“Have you had anything to eat?”

“TRASH IT, dammit!”

And so it went. By early evening on that last day I was staggering from box to box, forgetting where I was or what I was doing. It was impossible, at least if I wanted to take everything. My wife e-mailed a friend: “John is in shock. There are so many things he won’t be able to take — tools, artwork, books, books, books, artwork. I knew it would be like this, but I don’t know what I can do to help him.”

I still hadn’t sorted out 24 years’ worth of accumulated hand and power tools or a studio full of art and art supplies. The attic groaned under the weight of hundreds of books. But how many of those books had I actually put my hands on in the last 10 years? 20 years? How many tools had I reached for? And how long had it been since I stretched a canvas?

Give it up, John, I told myself. Give it all up. Let it go.

Suddenly the brilliant unconscious reasoning behind waiting until the last minute to start packing was revealed. Of course!! I had to fail at packing in order to leave my burdens behind. If I had started a month ago like the moving company’s brochures urged, I’d have had twice as much junk to deal with on the other end. I wasn’t a fool, I was a fucking genius!

The photos and family histories had already been packed. So had the stereo equipment, a pared-down record collection, all the CDs and half the tapes, extra computer gear, all the software, our clothes, all the heirloom china and silverware, a core collection of books and sheet music, selected small sentimental objects, and a box of automotive tools. Our favorite paintings and mirrors were set aside for the movers to pack. What else did we really need? A few items of furniture, perhaps, whatever the movers had room for, and screw the rest.

The truth was, moreover, that half of what we had already packed was crap. What a circus. What a joke. What a lesson.

Yesterday, the movers came. On the same day, I gave the big sculptures away to friends, all of whom were surprised, touched, and extremely grateful. At least I’ll be remembered.

I’m still in the process of sorting through the hand tools, with the idea of keeping a few and setting some aside for other friends to play with. What’s left and tons of other stuff will go to a flea market dealer for two cents on the dollar. What he doesn’t want will go to a man I’ve never met, a “Mr. Peachin,” who my real estate lady says will haul everything else away. Boy, will he have fun when he sees all this stuff. The garage is filled with loose and semi-bagged trash. I’m supposed to call “Mr. Potts” to come deal with that. These guys aren’t a team, but perhaps they should be.

There’s a lesson here, I know there is. Everything is connected. Right now the Eastern Shore is going through an unspeakably beautiful Indian summer spell, with warm temperatures, red-and-yellow leaves floating lazily down through swarms of gnats, the fields smelling of damp earth and rot, everything setting itself up for a cleansing blast of cold November air. In a day or two the first big cold front will come sweeping through. The wind will howl, the remaining leaves will be stripped from the trees, the first frost will crumple the flowers, and the gutter pipe I propped up on the kitchen roof will fall over, with no one here to put it back up. This would be sad, except who can do everything? Who can own and take care of everything in the whole world?

If you looked inside the house this evening, you’d still see lots of stuff here and there. We can cram a couple more boxes worth into the pickup when we leave, but everything else is on its way out via other means. I can cry, die, or wonder why, but I can’t take it with me. It belongs to the world or the Kent County landfill. The junk is dead, long live the junk!

Last night, unbelievably tired, I went to bed happier than I’d been in days. 6,000 pounds of God knows what was gone, destined for a storage unit in New Mexico. I felt light, almost euphoric, as I crawled into the sleeping bag on our surprisingly comfy mattress on the floor. Kathy was still there, all cozy and warm. The window was open to the still, damp air, and I could actually hear the maple letting go: click, rattle, rustle-rustle…

If the trees could do it, so could I. All I had to do was give up a few leaves.

Related posts:

1. BUFFALO LIGHTS: Maryland to New Mexico – Part II, Chapter 2, “The Grownup Manual”
2. BUFFALO LIGHTS: Maryland to New Mexico – Part III, Chapter 4, “New Mexico Slow”
3. BUFFALO LIGHTS: Maryland to New Mexico – Part II, Chapter 4, “Light in My Eyes”
4. BUFFALO LIGHTS: Maryland to New Mexico – Part I, Chapter 2, “Blood Rites”
5. BUFFALO LIGHTS: Maryland to New Mexico – Part I, Chapter 1, “Imprinting”