The Move

Well, Kismet and I have survived the downsizing, packing and driving phases of this move, only barely. After watching Meathead Movers (honest – that’s their name) load all my boxes and furniture into their truck, I drove six hours south, arriving at my son’s house just in time to kiss my two granddaughters (one visiting) goodnight. I would meet the movers at the apartment in the morning, but for now what I wanted was rest. John had made up the bed in Sheila, my RV.  Kismet and I climbed under the covers and fell immediately asleep.

Breakfast

The first morning in my new home I managed to pass the “Can you make breakfast with no toaster, cups, plates, or utensils?” test. I had remembered to put coffee, filter, and coffee cone in my suitcase, but failed to provide myself with cups or spoons. Putting coffee aside for the moment, I decided to toast some gluten-free bread under the broiler. Unfortunately, there is no broiler under my gas stove, only an empty hole. I dissolved a powdered citrus energy drink in a paper KFC cup I’d forgotten to throw away, and while I was drinking that, pretending it was orange juice, I scavenged around until I found a saucepan in a box of baking supplies.

Now I could boil water for coffee. I filtered the dark roast blend I love into a travel cup I received as a going away gift, then moved a box off my couch and sat down to enjoy my drink – a true Folger moment.  I boiled more water to cook two eggs, silently thanking my daughter for convincing me to put them in the ice chest with my other food. I felt like she and my friend who gave me the travel cup were here with me, and that I was on a camping trip, making do.

Not finding my egg topper or any knives or spoons, I opened the eggs with a craft saw and scooped out the interior with a plastic knife. Then I sat back on the couch and ate my boiled eggs with a fork. I finished off my repast with a handful of almonds and two Medjool dates. Not elegant, but I felt more human having eaten something substantial.

Looking at the boxes piled three deep in my living room was pretty overwhelming.  I couldn’t see how I was going to even open them; I couldn’t lift them down from the stacks, and I couldn’t reach the top boxes to see what was inside. I decided to take Kismet for a walk.

The thing about Border Collies, and I knew this before I moved to a one-bedroom apartment, is that they need lots of exercise, and lots of mental stimulation. In Santa Cruz, in addition to two walks a day, we had the front and back yards in which to play Fetch, and a morning and evening routine of me throwing a frisbee to her while I soaked in the hot tub. Then there was always West Cliff Drive, that icon of the beach city that I will miss even more than my roses.

A New World for Kismet

Living in an apartment, Kismet will need three or four walks a day. She’ll be dependent on me to take her out for calls of nature. The first instance of those had already happened at 6:30 a.m. It was now 9:00 and she was instantly interested when I went for the leash. An only dog who has lived for ten years with this rather sedentary old lady, Kismet is unaccustomed to other dogs. This dog-friendly apartment complex is filled with canines of all breeds. We had survived the first walk without her growling at any other dogs, but to be fair, there were really only a couple of people out at that hour, and they were across the street on the other side of a small wall.  I upped my discipline on this second walk, commanding Kismet to walk at heel and stay close to me, and things went pretty well. She growled at a little chihuahua who was running around off-leash, but  – “Hey, it was a chihuahua, Mom, and its owner was breaking the rules.”

I’ve already met several other dog owners, and I can see there is a camaraderie among them that I look forward to sharing.  Like Kismet, I’m not fond of little yappy dogs, but there is a lovely well behaved standard poodle, a mellow German Shepherd, and several Labradoodles who appear quite friendly and have all learned to live in these close quarters.

Returning to the apartment, I attacked a couple of odd-shaped packages and smallish boxes that were on the floor in my bedroom. A large wall hanging in the first package and books in the boxes. Books would be easy; I gave away over 400 books before leaving, so I knew I would have plenty of room for the ones I brought with me. I spent way too much time deciding how to organize them, but I liked the result.  Good. Only 58 boxes to go. But what was I going to do with the wall hanging that was now covering my bed, or the four-foot-long David Hockney painting of Salt’s Mill, and the three framed maps of Saltaire, the site of my  WIP* novel?

When I began packing back home, I turned to a woman who helps people downsize. She was wonderful – helped me make decisions, packed and sealed boxes, and took my expendables out the door to her truck.

I got out my phone – no internet yet – and searched for a similar person or organization in this area.  I found a moving company that claimed to help seniors unpack and hang pictures, so I called them. They came out today and, while I wouldn’t give them even a C for how they crammed all my food into the pantry and stacked dishes all wonky in my cupboards, they did open ten boxes, break them down, and take them away in their truck. They also hung several pictures and the handwoven tapestry that goes over my bed.

There’s nothing about moving that’s easy, but I’d forgotten just how painful it can be. Part of the problem, at least in my case, is acquisitiveness. I’m embarrassed to say that this old hippie has acquired a phenomenal number of material possessions over the years. No one needs three whisks, two spatulas, four folding umbrellas. It’s hard to believe I once lived in a 15-foot trailer. I made many trips to Goodwill before I left home, and listed objects I thought had value to others on Freecycle. But now I am stacking things by the door again; I took three boxes of housewares and clothes to Goodwill today and I envision several more trips before I am finished.

Downsizing is a stage process. I’m in the fourth or fifth stage, and I’m still not finished. It will take several weeks to get my remaining possessions slimmed down so they fit into this space, and organized so I can function. I’m going to take it one day at a time. Meanwhile, I plan to enjoy the weather, the pool and spa, my new neighbors, and long walks with Kismet.

*Work in progress

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Marlene Anne Bumgarner moved to the California coast when her first grandchild was born. The author of The Book of Whole Grains, Organic Cooking for (not-so-organic) Mothers and Working with SchoolAge Children, her latest book is Back to the Land in Silicon Valley.