I’ve occasionally quipped (fancying myself a quipper) that there are two things which qualify you to claim grown-up living status: You don’t have to ask your friends to help you move because you can hire professionals to do that, and you don’t have to go the Laundromat because you have a washer and dryer in your residence.
On both counts, I am apparently a failed adult.
My recent move from the bucolic Cub Creek countryside to the urban hotbed of Twisp was an opportunity to purge and shed belongings as I transitioned from a small space to a much smaller one. I did my own packing, scrounging boxes from work and the Methow Recycles cardboard pile (Betsy said I could, and I re-recycled them). I also borrowed some handy plastic totes from Darla Hussey at the News, including one that had leftover glitter from her face-painting business. Look for that special adornment on some of my shirts.
I did an admittedly chaotic job of packing. I wasn’t particularly organized, did not label any of the boxes or totes, and followed no logical sequence. A few things — comforters, pillows and other big fluffy stuff — went into plastic garbage bags. Not elegant, but effective. Other solitary items I just grabbed and threw in my SUV. Hoboes travel with more style.
For the most part, hard-core practicality triumphed over nostalgic attachment or the stubborn hope that some day, some how, this thing that has been in the back of the closet for seven years will reveal its utility. It took several trips in my rig to get most of my worldly — and other-wordly — goods to the charming little house I’m now occupying in Twisp. Mission mostly accomplished.
But I still had enough furniture to fill the bed of a big old pickup for the 15-mile relocation journey. News reporter Ashley Ahearn and her husband, Michael Murray, were the much-appreciated moving crew, having secured the repair of their truck only the day before. (The four-wheel drive went out, and you can’t have that if you live in the Rendezvous, as Ashley and Michael do).
As unorganized as I was packing and hauling, that process looked like logistical genius compared to the hodge-podge of belongings dumped hither and yon in my new home. Kitchen stuff in the bedroom. Bedroom stuff in the bathroom. Bathroom stuff in a closet. Boxes whose incongruous contents defied sensible distribution. Things I was sure I had gotten rid of. Things I needed right now but couldn’t find for hours.
For all that, I was entirely unpacked by last Sunday, and most things are where they should be, or at least where I know to find them. It’s a snug and comfortable space with pretty much everything I need.
Except a washer and dryer. There’s simply no place where even an efficient stack unit would fit. That was part of the trade-off in finding a place that I like for its convenience and change of scenery. The new place has some advantages the old one did not (like a carport, and no driveway to plow, and a minuscule commute). Renters can’t entirely be choosers in this market, so you do the best you can. I think I did.
First world problems, as they say. It’s not like I had to cram all my possessions into a covered wagon and endure months on the Oregon Trail. Now it’s back to Washworks, where I spent time last summer because the dryer in my former residence was broken. It’s a well-maintained place were one can spend some quiet time online or reading while waiting for the machines to do their thing, or head over to Hank’s Harvest Food or Ulrich’s Pharmacy for some shopping. I could even go home for a while — it’s about a mile — and not worry about my laundry being stolen (the last time that happened was in my college dorm). I’ve already started to accumulate quarters.
It will take some time to get fully acclimated, and reorient myself to the rest of the valley from the Twispian perspective. I expect it to be an interesting vantage point. The moving experience is behind me with my adultness mostly intact, but I do have one lingering question:
Does anyone know if glitter comes out in the wash?