Lights glow from windows up and down the block. It is still dark, but kids are getting ready for school, parents for work. Oatmeal is on the stove, or boxes of cereal at the table. Toast in the toaster. It is a Monday.  We are retired, so it is just another day. Days blend together and, ironically, time goes faster just when I want it to slow and linger.

We’ve been sorting through our “things”, culling and winnowing the “not-needfuls” to make our move lighter. The process is slow, painful, full of little choices, bits of cloth and metal that bring back forgotten events. We pause over many of them, stalled by recollection. It is a slow process but, ultimately more is tossed than kept.  And this is only the first go-round.

The process worries me.

In the closet is an old bugle I saved my allowances to buy when I was ten. I never learned to play it, though I made a hell of a lot of noise trying. I haven’t thought of it in years and finding it, bent and tarnished as it was,  caused a bit of gleeful serendipity. I could picture the summer I bought it, remembered my identification with those cavalry buglers blowing charges and soulful Taps in the movies and the red cord I attached to securely carry it on our Saturday missions around our block. I gave the mouthpiece a rub and blew a rather annoying sound. The dog woke up. I still couldn’t play it but, tossing it into the garage sale box felt like tossing a memory away. I hesitated. The bugle was like a key to that particular portion of my childhood. Still, I have no need for it now and we are down-sizing. Reluctantly, I put it in the box and reached for the next item to consider.

Last weekend we went with our daughter’s family into the hills north of Spokane. Enterprising farmers there have set up picnic grounds with tables, benches, pumpkin patches, and hard cider stands. The lines of cars were long and worrisome (I’m from Wyoming where more than 1 person within a mile is considered a crowd) but they scattered to various farms and we then had a lovely, quiet drive in the early fall sunlight of Eastern Washington.

We landed at a small farm with a large grassy and treed pasture, surrounded by pumpkin patches, apple trees, and a couple of out-buildings. A small store sold cider and T-shirts. Families sat on lawn chairs or blankets. We drank cider and snacked on the cheese, crackers, and salami that was our picnic lunch. We visited some and people-watched some. It was as close to a perfect afternoon as I have ever experienced.

We didn’t come away from that afternoon with any trinkets to stick in a drawer, we had just the memory.

Somehow that afternoon has changed my feelings about shedding our “stuff”. I don’t feel the need to hold onto bits and pieces as much. I’m not just tossing things out willy-nilly, but I’m less reluctant to let go of them, to shed some layers. We are, after all, downsizing, and it really is only stuff.

Blessings

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