Last week, I told you we’re moving. This week, we found a typewriter.
An actual typewriter. In our house. Neither Tracy nor I remembered it was there, which raises some questions about how thoroughly we’ve been keeping track of our possessions. Apparently, there’s a point at which you stop owning things and simply provide accommodation for them.
We’re now exploring the house in preparation for downsizing, which is a polite way of saying we need to chuck out a whole bunch of crap we no longer need. “Downsizing” sounds measured and sensible. It suggests a thoughtful process involving decisions and perhaps a clipboard. The actual process involves finding something you forgot existed and immediately having to decide whether you’re going to continue owning it.
The typewriter was a particularly good discovery in a house occupied by two writers. You might expect us to know about the equipment. But no. Somewhere along the way, we’d managed to forget an entire means of producing manuscripts.
I have no idea what else is waiting for us. If we uncover a printing press, I’ll let you know.
Of course, finding things is only the first part of the job. Then comes the debate about what to do with them, conducted both with one another and inside our own heads.
We should get rid of this. We haven’t used it in years. There’s no reason to pack it, move it, and find somewhere to put it.
But what if we need it at the new place?
That question has remarkable staying power. We’re trying to reduce the amount of stuff we have, while simultaneously considering all the circumstances under which that stuff might become useful. An object can sit undisturbed long enough for us to forget we own it, yet the moment we consider getting rid of it, its future prospects improve dramatically.
The stackable plastic chairs from the back deck are currently making a particularly strong case for themselves.
I want to put them at the curb with a sign saying, “Free to a good home.” Someone takes the chairs, we have fewer chairs, and nobody has to transport them to our next address. This strikes me as an excellent arrangement.
Unfortunately, we’ve been sitting in them when we take breaks from cleaning up the yard.
It’s difficult to argue that you don’t need a chair while sitting in it. I can explain my reasoning, but the chair has the advantage of supporting my backside throughout the discussion. Every time we stop working and sit down, it gets another opportunity to demonstrate its usefulness.
So the chairs remain under consideration. They’re cooperating with the cleanup effort, which may be the smartest thing a piece of furniture can do when its owner is thinking about putting it out at the curb.
Meanwhile, the yard has been producing discoveries of its own.
We found six balls: a tennis ball, a golf ball, a baseball, and three coloured plastic balls. Our kids haven’t lived here in at least a decade, and these can’t belong to them. I have no idea whose kids they belonged to, or what the heck they’re doing in my yard.
One stray ball would be understandable. Six, covering several different recreational interests, makes me wonder whether we’ve been operating some kind of neighbourhood collection service.
The golf ball is especially puzzling. A tennis ball or a plastic ball can escape a nearby yard without requiring much explanation. A golf ball suggests either considerable ambition or a shot that went very badly indeed.
Nobody has come looking for any of them, as far as I know. They’ve simply settled in, joining the other things we now have to make decisions about. Apparently, even the yard has been acquiring possessions.
There’s something about preparing to move that makes you look at your home differently. You’re used to seeing the places where things belong. Then you start seeing the things themselves, and realize how many individual decisions are standing between you and an empty room.
Some are easy. Others require negotiation. And a few apparently require excavation.
We’ve still got plenty to do before the house is ready to sell, but we’ve made a start. We’re clearing the yard, working out what should stay and what should go, and discovering that our inventory is less accurate than we’d assumed.
For now, we have a forgotten typewriter, six balls of uncertain origin, and a set of deck chairs whose continued employment depends on how tired we are. I’d like to report that we’re firmly in charge of the process, but the chairs are doing quite well.
What’s the strangest thing you’ve found while clearing out a house? And did you manage to get rid of it, or did it successfully argue that you might need it someday?