Be­moan­ing mov­ing

There was a time in my life when the lure of pizza and hang­ing out with some friends was enough to get me to help some­one move. I was am­bi­tious.

The Covington News - - Opinion - Har­ris Black­wood Colum­nist

I’ve moved a few times in my life and quite frankly, I de­spise it.

I used to travel lightly. One time, I moved from one apart­ment com­plex to an­other one next door. I loaded ev­ery­thing on a twin bed with wheels and just pushed it from one park­ing lot to the next.

That may rank as the eas­i­est move I ever made.

There was a time in my life when the lure of pizza and hang­ing out with some friends was enough to get me to help some­one move.

I was am­bi­tious. I once car­ried a re­cliner up three flights of stairs at an apart­ment com­plex in Athens, only to find I was at the wrong apart­ment.

My fa­vorite move was 20 years ago when we came to Gainesville. We went to church on the Sun­day be­fore we were to move and the preacher asked what he could do to help us. I told him we were mov­ing in the next Satur­day and needed some help.

Sure enough, at 8 a.m., a bunch of cars came rolling in the drive­way and a crowd of folks armed with strong backs and a sack­ful of bis­cuits came in. That truck was un­loaded in about 20 min­utes. Many of those folks are still friends of mine to­day and it all stemmed from a real act of kind­ness.

We’re go­ing to have to move again. It won’t be un­til De­cem­ber or Jan­uary, but I’m al­ready get­ting a lit­tle ner­vous.

I’m not go­ing to do it my­self and there is no amount of pizza or bis­cuits that would bring out any of my con­tem­po­raries to help.

Things have changed in 20 years, I’m not quite as strong or ag­ile as I used to be. I’ve got that fur­ni­ture dis­ease. My chest has fallen down to my draw­ers.

For this move, we will hire some­one to do the heavy lift­ing. I’ve given thought to buy­ing a lawn chair and just sit­ting out­side and of­fer­ing di­rec­tions to the movers.

Then, I re­mind my­self that we will be mov­ing in the dead of win­ter and the lawn chair loses its ap­peal.

My big­gest con­cern be­tween now and then is rid­ding my­self of stuff. If there was a Na­tional As­so­ci­a­tion of Stuff, I could be the pres­i­dent for life. I have lots of stuff.

My wife and I mar­ried five years ago. I have my stuff, she has her stuff and to­gether we have ac­cu­mu­lated our stuff.

On top of that, I have a great por­tion of my par­ents’ stuff. When my mother died, I couldn’t de­cide what to do with their stuff, so I moved it into my garage.

Mama had lots of lit­tle doo-dads. She had lit­tle fig­urines and tea cups and the like. I wanted to get rid of them, but live in con­stant fear that I will see them on an episode of “An­tiques Road­show” val­ued at a jil­lion dol­lars.

I’ve also got to sort through the con­tents of “the drawer.” It’s the drawer that most every­one has. It has ev­ery­thing from a cheap pair of pliers to a part for a vacuum cleaner that we quit us­ing years ago. It’s the drawer of mis­fit stuff.

I’ll move that one my­self. Don’t tell my wife, but I’ve al­ready picked out a place for one in the new house.

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