finders keepers

I've decided that moving is the masochist's way of cleaning and organizing. At one point in our history The Husband and I moved every 12 months or so across half the country. At least twice. Thankfully that ended with our settlement here, but up until that point, we had moving down to a crazy, practiced science. Our possessions were few and streamlined and we constantly had a supply of cardboard boxes stored in our attic.

The move we're going to make in less than a month has assumed bigger proportions. First of all, we have actual furniture. Furniture for grownups. Like a solid walnut buffet and an antique china cupboard. Of course we'll be moving The Husband's living room furniture, remnants from his bachelor days. Frankly, my romance with the oxblood leather couch and cub chair has waned, and I've developed a full-blown loathing of the coffee table. It looks perfectly serviceable, but it's a monolith of marble and solid wood, and you need to hire the Incredible Hulk to move it. I'd rather rent a chainsaw and bust the sucker into pieces, but I doubt my husband would ever forgive me. How he could possibly love that behemoth is beyond me. And he has actually vowed, with a hand placed over his heart and perfect dramatic presentation, that it's the ONLY piece of furniture that he has ever loved. The only one! I wonder if the moving people can accidentally lose it along I-95...hmmmm.

This time our move is going to be different. Mostly because I'm not allowing The Husband to toss his crap, er, stuff in a box without sorting through it. No random receipts from three years ago, no Christmas cards that he forgot to mail (complete with stamps) but was too embarrassed to confess, no odds and end electronic equipment that somehow manages to all look the same. Of course I'm obeying the same rule. And with a much better attitude, I might add.

Just yesterday I stumbled upon a collection of perfume bottles that I had as a child. At one point my Grammy worked at a cosmetics company as a bookkeeper, and being the consummate frugal, she saved every sample and tester they gave her. This was years before I was born, and when I was deemed old enough (first grade), she began giving them to me. Every time I visited, she would disappear into a closet and emerge with a tester of perfume or tiny face powder that had never been sampled. Needless to say, I was fascinated by the stuff and wore the perfume in copious amounts. I remember my father having a heart-to-heart with me about how a little bit of perfume went a long way. I listened to him with a grave expression, all the while wondering why we were discussing this completely random topic. I figured he just didn't have the good sense to recognize a sophisticated perfum like Intoxication Toilet Water. Good grief, you must have been able to smell my approach from a mile away. I was a seven-year-old who smelled like an octogenarian. One without functional olfactory nerves. I believe the term toilet water has become self-explanatory.

When I pulled out the perfume bottles, some of them had evaporated into a molasses-like consistency but others looked perfectly the same. I felt compelled to open them, even though I could easily smell the scent that emanated from it a yard away. The perfumes got all over my hands, despite my ginger handling of them, and I mistakenly overestimated the distance and smeared Evening in Paris on my nose. Evening in Paris? Dear ones, if I ever make it to Paris and it smells like that, I want a full refund.

Other re-finds weren't as stinky. I had a lovely reunion with my Victorian butter dish. (My eternal thanks to Kitty for his sharp eye at estate sales and generous gift-giving.) Please excuse the tarnish. I just can't seem to find the time these days to polish the silver.

The Victorians knew how to set a table, didn't they? I've decided that the hooks on the side were to hold the butter knife.

And I rediscovered this:

Is it a bud vase? A knick-knack? Regardless, I like it too much to donate it. Even if I'm uncertain how to use it.

Every day has become one of discovery. I'm either loving the things I re-find or asking myself, "what the holy blue blazes was I thinking?" I hope to have more of the former in the weeks ahead and a whole lot less crap to move. Amen.

Comments

[Janet Eisenbise]

Real make-up for a 5 year old??! Yes it disappeared before it became a part of the living room upholstery. Being an expert on indulgent grandparenthood myself, we should draw the line at big space-eating plastic toys, toys that shriek, whistle, or talk. And anything with 150 parts that will end up under the seat cushions. I figure they can discuss their deprivation with a therapist someday. :-)

[Amy O]

Margo-First grade was also old enough to receive a small makeup collection at Christmas from Grammy. Despite my enthrallment, it somehow disappeared before I could ever use it. I believe my mother is at fault, but I can't blame her.

[margo]

you make me LAUGH.

I love that first grade is old enough for perfume. Evie will be so excited :) not that I have anything to give her - my husband is allergic to most perfumes, he claims.

[The Muse of The Day]

Amy_ if the quality of the writing in this post is any indication of the writing you are doing in your book, I say stop packing. Put all these lovely little treasures in a box WITHOUT sorting through them, and finish that book. You have a gift. I only wish I could write as well as you do, and I am grateful that your words, today, came before my eyes. Carolina

[Amy O]

Reebs:  That is so funny that you remember that. I had completely forgotten. Now where did that patchwork purse get to? xoxo

[Rebecca]

I remember the bottle of green Emeraude. I thought that stuff smelled de-vine. You carried it in your patchwork purse that Great-Grandma made for you. We would take frequent breaks in our game to re-apply. TWO octogenarians who could be smelled a mile off.

I love that red vase/thingumy.