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As I look out the window behind my desk I can see that the snow, which was covering the ground a short while ago, is all gone. Since winter sports are not my thing, I view this as a happy fact. If only there were a patch of blue in the grey clouds above.
The skiers, sledders, and snowboarders can be happy because there is snow in their playgrounds with the promise of more to come. I’m glad for them. Anytime they want to experience a new thrill, let them try maneuvering on snow and ice while pushing a walker around.
With Thanksgiving in the memory books, we are fast approaching Christmas. I have mixed feelings about the rest of this month. For one thing, I cannot help but feel a degree of guilt when I think of all the military people fighting for their lives in the desert. They are so far from home, in grave danger, and missing those they left behind.
So many of them have young children, and so many are, themselves so young. It’s hard to sustain a Ho, Ho, Ho, attitude if you care.
As if this weren’t enough to make the holiday season go all topsy-turvy, I’m moving. Again, this is a two sided mixture of feelings. On the one hand, I’m delighted; on the other, groaning inwardly. The move itself is a happy, very short one, from one apartment to another bigger place in the same complex, and just a few doors away. It’s all ground floor work, so no one will have to lug things up and down stairs. I just wish I could wave a magic wand and have the whole business a fete accompli. Shazam – and there I am transported during a commercial break.
I’ve moved so many times in my lifetime, it takes two pages in my address book just to note all the different places in which I’ve lived. Each time, I’ve found it exciting. Put a golden loop in my ear and call me Gypsy.
Whenever I couldn’t indulge the urge to hitch up the horse, load the wagon, put out the cooking fire and move on out, I would move furniture. I thought nothing of shoving loaded bookcases, dressers, or heavily stuffed sofas from one place to another. By the time I was finished, just about everything was someplace else and I had the feeling that so was I. My husband would enter the house at supper time, blink a few times as he oriented himself to the placement of his favorite chair, sigh a bit, and ask, “Where are we tonight?”
At times, usually the week before Christmas, he would have to be involved. This would be when my urge to relocate was particularly strong and required a wall removal. Fortunately, he was an expert on building construction, so I knew if my target was a bearing wall and could be knocked down without the house falling apart.
On two occasions, the furniture was frustrating my efforts and I pitched the offending pieces over the back porch wall. Gradually, I replaced everything with light weight, easily moved chairs and sofas. The décor became minimal, fairly Scandinavian, and sometimes a bit exotic. A lot of it was actually patio furniture, which seemed to be my furnishings of choice, satisfying a long time longing to set up camp in Tahiti.
Apparently, this feeling has returned, after a few years of living like a normal person. I recently replaced an overstuffed couch with a beautiful porch or patio glider. It looks like a Polynesian love seat that swings like a Canadian rocker. You can sit in comfort and gently sway as you watch an old South Seas movie like Mutiny on the Bounty.
This move will be more like, “Load up the Kon Tiki, put out the luau fire, and lets head for the atoll four doors down.” This will help mask the reality of a short move to a bigger apartment four units away.
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