Things are busy. Sort of super-crazy-insane busy. My beau has gotten a job in his motherland (aka Colorado) and we are moving. To the suburbs. Not a phrase I ever thought I'd utter. Regardless, it's happening, and it's fine. He leaves this weekend with our Westie, and I follow in a month. Until then, it's packing, working full time for the Irish dancers, working on my novel, finishing my class, and seeing everyone I'll miss.
I don’t know if it’s just the nature of moving (probably) or being engaged (probably) or heading to the home of your person, but a place which is not your home (probably) but I’ve been super nostalgic lately. I’ve even been nostalgic about Cleveland. When mom and I went through my hope chest, sentiment seized me, and I probably optioned to take too many embroidered pillowcases and crocheted table cloths (I will have to filter them out to the beau strategically so as not to overwhelm). And I just couldn’t say no to the surprising amount of aprons that belonged to various generations of women in my family.** I even lamented the fate of the classic old Frigidaire in the little cottage like house next door.* (True, I’d had a some Jack & Coke.)
Regardless, I’m finding myself prepping to move from the big city to a suburb of Denver, with an armload of china and aprons.
SOTD: “High Times” by Landon Pigg
*Back story: the house belonged to a man who was essentially part of the family and had been around my entire life. He was a retired school teacher who never married, and always brought my mother flowers from his garden, and did the most beautiful leather and wood work. When I was a little girl, I decided I wanted to move into his house some day, far down the road, when he was gone. He passed the September I was living in Los Angeles and I couldn’t justify moving back to rural Ohio just for the house, sentimental as it is. So of course, a young family has bought it. And of course, they have probably chucked the fridge. I don’t know this for sure, I don’t really want to know. I don’t want to know if they mow over his flowerbeds. Or take the metal awnings down from his windows. I know things never stay the same, and that’s just how it is, but I’m not ready to let go of some things yet. I hate when I see monuments of my childhood become unthreaded.
**Side note: remember when aprons were in? It was like the late ‘90s, or early part of this century. I remember wearing them over jeans with my Chuck Taylors. So, yeah, I brought them partly for that reason. Partly because they are fancy with lacy details or sheer black overlay, or cute with pink and black gingham print, or my mom remembers tying the strings of them behind my great grandmothers back when she was little. How, I ask you, can you say no to this?
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