The garage sale
I'm back in my office late at night trying to wrap it all up. We're leaving for Chicago in a little over four days. This week has been a blur. We had our garage sale, which went pretty well, I think. I'm still amazed at the things people were willing to spend money on. "One man's trash is another man's treasure" doesn't even begin to explain what goes on during these things. There are professional garage sale patrons - people who show up hours before the published opening time, spend hours pouring over every item, asking questions, searching for specific things, looking for a diamond in the rough. They know each other by name and by preferences ("sorry, dear! No Asian stuff here!"). They know a bargain when they see one. They seem to know things about my stuff that I don't. They are creepy.
We closed on our house in the middle of the garage sale. What a relief! I thought I'd be more distraught as everything became final; but as bookshelves, beds, dressers, and my house found new owners, I wished them all a fond farewell.
One of the odder things that someone bought was a bag full of my old fencing ribbons. My friend's mother looked on in horror as a little boy carted off years of hard work and dedication bordering on an unhealthy and expensive obsession.
"You're selling your history!" She hissed at me.
An ex-champion's trash is a little boy's treasure. I think I'm good with that. What will that boy make of those faux gold disks with the brightly colored ribbons? Will they inspire him, or will they end up gathering dust in a drawer, as they did in my home? Would my own kids have done anything more with them, I wonder? It's best not to ponder the fate of my trash too deeply. It has brought people joy, and me release. That's enough.
A couple of days later we celebrated my son's seventh birthday with a big party. It was a couple of weeks early, but I wanted my boy to share one last celebration with his friends. The party was in the gym of the JCC. The kids ran around like crazy for a solid hour, while moms and dads stood around the edges trying to make sense of the chaos before them. The posse stopped their perpetual motion long enough for pizza, cake, and ice cream, and then they were off again! My son was deliriously happy.
I silently urged him to treasure each second, before it passed on.
With four days to go, we're packing, cleaning, and making all of our final preparations. I'm still trying to finish up an impossibly infinite task here at work. At some point I'll have to pass this project on to someone else to finish up. In other words, dump it on them. In the meantime, it's still my responsibility.
My children are watching their belongings get packed away or sold, but they go on as normally as they can. They're taking swimming lessons, going to camp, and playing with friends. I know they are aware that the big day is coming fast, but I'm not sure if they really get it. I took the girls for their last check-up at the pediatrician. They both got shots, and I sat in the examination room with two sobbing girls in my lap. Like those shots, I doubt the pain of this move will linger for my little girls for too long, but it may be different for my seven year-old. He is so sensitive to the sadness and regret that surround him. I know he'll be fine, but I can't help but feel a tremendous sense of loss for a wonderful slice of life that can't be frozen in place.
It's time to move on.
We closed on our house in the middle of the garage sale. What a relief! I thought I'd be more distraught as everything became final; but as bookshelves, beds, dressers, and my house found new owners, I wished them all a fond farewell.
One of the odder things that someone bought was a bag full of my old fencing ribbons. My friend's mother looked on in horror as a little boy carted off years of hard work and dedication bordering on an unhealthy and expensive obsession.
"You're selling your history!" She hissed at me.
An ex-champion's trash is a little boy's treasure. I think I'm good with that. What will that boy make of those faux gold disks with the brightly colored ribbons? Will they inspire him, or will they end up gathering dust in a drawer, as they did in my home? Would my own kids have done anything more with them, I wonder? It's best not to ponder the fate of my trash too deeply. It has brought people joy, and me release. That's enough.
A couple of days later we celebrated my son's seventh birthday with a big party. It was a couple of weeks early, but I wanted my boy to share one last celebration with his friends. The party was in the gym of the JCC. The kids ran around like crazy for a solid hour, while moms and dads stood around the edges trying to make sense of the chaos before them. The posse stopped their perpetual motion long enough for pizza, cake, and ice cream, and then they were off again! My son was deliriously happy.
I silently urged him to treasure each second, before it passed on.
With four days to go, we're packing, cleaning, and making all of our final preparations. I'm still trying to finish up an impossibly infinite task here at work. At some point I'll have to pass this project on to someone else to finish up. In other words, dump it on them. In the meantime, it's still my responsibility.
My children are watching their belongings get packed away or sold, but they go on as normally as they can. They're taking swimming lessons, going to camp, and playing with friends. I know they are aware that the big day is coming fast, but I'm not sure if they really get it. I took the girls for their last check-up at the pediatrician. They both got shots, and I sat in the examination room with two sobbing girls in my lap. Like those shots, I doubt the pain of this move will linger for my little girls for too long, but it may be different for my seven year-old. He is so sensitive to the sadness and regret that surround him. I know he'll be fine, but I can't help but feel a tremendous sense of loss for a wonderful slice of life that can't be frozen in place.
It's time to move on.
posted by law school widow at 10:32 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home