WRITING ABOUT LIFE: MOVING ON
(Humorosity #34)
By Honeydew Zubari
Boxes. As I piled another box on the shaky tower that now was taller than me, I wondered where on earth I’d managed to get so much stuff. I started out on my first move packing a bedroom. That was when I left the family nest and struck out for Texas. Ha! Heady days. A couple closets’ worth of clothes and valuables filling the back of my Escort and I was ready to go.
The second time I moved I packed an entire apartment’s worth of stuff, half of it mine. Well, okay, most of it mine, except for the furniture. Then a couple of years later my sister and I packed an entire house. Both my parents were gone and we were closing down the family nest, three stories of memories to sort. That’s when I moved into my cave and without my knowledge started filling the three bedrooms with furniture and stuff.
It’s amazing. I wander around asking, “Where did that come from?” like an alien intruder dumped all his unwanted knick knacks and thingamabobs in my closets and on my shelves. Hmpf.
My new home has a basement. My eyes are glazing over in anticipation; thinking of miles of empty space to fill with collections of…well, stuff.
Some writers are stark, using only the bare minimum of words. I can’t help but wonder if they live in a minimalist home, with one shirt in the closet, one pair of shoes. Maybe a chair and a desk for their laptop. No muss, no fuss.
Then there are the overblown writers. If no adjective is good, they’ll use a string of them. These are the people I imagine with chintz chairs and antique pie crust tables and bric-a-brac cramming every available inch of space, along with a dozen cats. Suffocating.
I fall somewhere in the middle, liking sentimental things like the Royal Daulton figurine my grandmother passed down, or Pig, a piglet-sized bank that was a wedding present to my parents from a friend with a strange sense of humor. They were offered a choice of an elephant’s leg umbrella holder or Pig. Mom always shuddered at the thought of that umbrella holder.
Pig is packed safely away and I pluck Destructo-cat off the tower of boxes before she topples it. For a minute I let myself feel sentimental about my cave. I’ve helped start an e-zine from my little office and written thirty-four “Humorosities.” Not to mention three novels and a gazillion short stories. Friends have found an always-open door. There are more happy memories here than not, I think.
In a little over a week I’ll be sitting in a new office with no monster overhead and no insane dog lady next door. I’ll have a new window that doesn’t look out on the parking lot, rather a lawn and woods. Will I be able to write without screaming kids and ten yipping dogs and assorted furniture being tossed overhead? I guess I’ll find out next week! Meanwhile, I have to get back to the boxes.
