The Art of the Box

As I've said before, we're planning to move. So, having heard friends’ stories about what their friends told them, before we even hired a realtor I started to pack. Not only would that get a lot of excess “stuff” out of the way and make things look better, I felt I was getting a jump on things. After all, I could pack and purge at the same time. Trust me, the purging is easier.

Boxes

First, you have to decide about the boxes. I have book boxes, which have openings on the end so you can pick them up more easily once they’re filled, and separate tops so it’s easier to close them up—maybe. Packing books isn’t that hard, especially when you can then make bags of books to donate to either the library or Goodwill, which takes almost anything. But those boxes get heavy really fast. As in, I would fill them, close them, and then just leave them on the floor for Ed to move. My lifting abilities are limited. But I also tried to pack by category—fiction in one box, general nonfiction in another, unneeded accounting boxes in a third. I think I had 15 boxes of books done in three days. Sometimes I’d fill a bottom box, put another one on top, and then put a third on top, just to preserve space.

Then there are boxes for other materials. I have good-sized medium ones for the dining room. And I had direction from a mover I spoke to on how to pack dishes, knickknacks, etc. it was time consuming but bending over is good for the waist—or so I’ve been told. Those boxes get heavier even faster. Packing dishes is an interesting effort and a lot of packing paper is involved. I worked out a deal with the hubby—I packed, labeled, and closed. He provided the raw strength to move them. He swears that at least one of the boxes weighed over 60 pounds. I’m not sure of that, but then again, I try not to lift a lot. Ever see someone steer a full box down the hall into a storage space? You can either push it, which sometimes doesn’t work well, or push it with a foot, which has benefits as stress relief. Of course, once I got it to the other room I couldn’t get it onto the pile.

Packing Order

Second, there is the decision on what to pack first. I started to pack linens early, because it was spring, I wanted the winter stuff out of the way, and I thought it would be easier to just have the summer/early fall stuff around. I even packed some of the towels—when you have three linen closets you end up with a lot of towels, even after you’ve given away a lot of them. I think the towels may have given birth to more towels when we weren’t looking and decisions to sever families of them were difficult.

And then there was my husband’s blanket, which we have named Puffy. It’s a king-sized down comforter, which can be folded and stuffed into a box, and closed. Except when I came back to the room the tape was coming off and the blanket was trying to get out—it was the only item in that box. I sat on top of it and put on more tape. It was still trying to get out. Ultimately, I stacked a bigger box on top of it and weighted that down with more linens to keep the box closed. I’m still afraid the blanket will get out. It’s the stuff of nightmares.

Third, I have loaded every knickknack I could find; someone told me that when the house goes on the market some viewers can have slightly sticky fingers so you have to get everything put away. I’m not sure that’s true but I packed them up. That includes in the dining room, where I had a hutch with shelves in it and “tchotchkes” on every shelf. I got rid of a couple of bowls but on the whole most of the items came from various travels and I wanted to keep them. That meant wrapping everything in paper, and then filling the empty spots in the box (which I’ve carefully lined with crunched up paper to give it a softer bottom) with more paper. When we got to unwrap it all, and trust me, that won’t be a fast job, I’ll need a box just to hold the paper that won’t be needed anymore. It won’t be pretty.

But then you have to have a place to put all the boxes. I solved that issue by putting a really old couch on Freecycle. That went quickly and voila—space for boxes. Many, many boxes. If you go into that room now, it’s a two-deep wall of boxes that’s 3 boxes high—I would have gone deeper but the room was getting too full. Plus, we now have boxes in the garage—only a single layer deep, but four boxes high. After all, in theory we really do still need to put the cars in too. I think.

Stacked Up

We ended up with 50-plus boxes, plus some bins that can be just wrapped in tape and loaded as is. After I was done with the dining room I walked in and said to my husband, “That’s it. Someone else is doing the kitchen.” He looked at me and decided that the best answer would be “Okay.” I’m told it will be 21 boxes for the kitchen, and I don’t know how many more for the basement and other spots that I couldn’t handle.

I don’t want to see another box to pack again if I can avoid it—I probably can’t. I still have a lot of packing paper around and will figure out how to deal with that another time. In the meantime, anyone need bubble wrap?

Next time: Talking to moving companies.

Oh, the Decision              

We were supposed to talk to a realtor in December, but then the baby got sick and everything was put off. Then we wanted to talk to him in March but he was out of town. The conversation happened in May--with the baby along to add an opinion. Regardless of months of waiting to move forward, the decision was made… we’re moving.

I’ve lived in different parts of two adjoining states for my entire life. All of them were, let’s say, within 60 miles of each other, and I’m being generous. It was probably a little less. Therefore, the decision to move was not easily made. But, it’s hard to argue that the children might come back East; they won’t. And we do want to have an opinion when asked on what might be good for the grandchildren. Our views are very different from those of the in-laws. And that’s fine; different is okay unless one side is a criminal and the other isn’t—and even then, what kinds of criminals are they; there might be a really good reason.

So, we’re going to move. To Colorado. What’s 1700 miles give or take among friends? As it turns out, most of our friends totally understood our move. Some cried; only two got upset but I think they’re over it. I’m not sure I’m happy that everyone took it so well but I’ll cope.

I’ve started a list of what happens just to get to actually leaving. And a list of things I want in the new place—how many bedrooms, bathrooms; how much space. Do we have to have a basement or can we live without one (we probably need one just for the husband’s exercise equipment; he’s having trouble cutting down on that). And a list of what we can get rid of—turns out there’s a fair amount of that.

I’m now intimately acquainted with Craigslist. Turns out that it takes no effort to change your sale location and end up offering things in Brooklyn while living in New Jersey. However, it does take 15 minutes of effort to figure out how to change it back—and I still have no idea what happened. Plus, my negotiating ability has improved dramatically. One could even say that it is in direct proportion with how badly I want something out of my house. And some things I want gone immediately.

The next few weeks will be crazed. Not only do all these decisions need to happen, but the house must be instantly ready for buyers to view. And I have to be ready at all times to either leave the house or work very quietly in my corner and hope no one notices me. No matter what, it’s going to be messy.

More soon.

Why Fear

I am a woman, with a mind of her own.

I live on the East Coast.

I would be considered by many to be a liberal—probably socially liberal but with some fiscally conservative overtones (and no, not a believer in the Tea Party).

I am a Jew.

I started writing this almost a week after the capture of the Boston Marathon bomber (no, you can’t say I’m quick with some things).  I can tell you that after listening to everything I said the younger brother was pushed into following the older brother. That doesn’t excuse it; he was old enough to know better, and he can rot in jail for the rest of his life. It merely helps to explain things, at least for me.

But that’s separate from what I was going to say here—although related. I also watched with fascination as everyone just started screaming that it was one group or another, or should I say one person who could be categorized as belonging to a group that people feared. I found it fascinating that Donald Trump (and this was well before he decided to run for office) was asked what should happen and he said the guy should be waterboarded. A senator instantly announced that the bombers should be labeled as “enemy combatants” so that numerous Constitutional guarantees could be ignored. And at the hearings (there are always hearings, which go no place and should never even happen since they resolve nothing), they wanted to know why someone who was picked up and then proved uninvolved hadn’t been put on a watch list. (Actually, I think there are several senators who probably shoul be on watch lists; we can figure out why later.) After all, he doesn’t believe we have any rights; only he, and those who agree with him, has those.

What are we so afraid of? And why do we have to put everyone in a “group.” Can I remind you that Timothy McVeigh, and Adam Lanza, and the guy who shot up the movie theater in Colorado were all white? By the way, I worked for a Muslim (he was not all that observant but he was definitely up on everything he should have been doing to be observant); he was devastated by what happened on September 11, and could quote the Koran on why it was wrong. He was a terrible boss, something a lot of people would agree with, but in no way was he a radical Muslim. Another man in the firm had converted to Islam; he was sick about what happened. Neither of them would ever be considered "radicals." There are far more Muslims out there who hate the jihadists, and are not radical people. They just happen to be Muslims.

Then there was the shooting at Planned Parenthood in Colorado Springs. Yes, the shooter, who surrendered to police, had a lot of problems. In fact, since his problems were mainly mental, can anyone explain to me why he had a gun permit--or if not, how he got the guns? He sounded totally rational when arrested, but was talking about “baby parts.” I’ve often found it strange that it’s all right to shoot people in a clinic where abortions might be performed because you think they’re wrong, but the people in the clinics aren’t allowed to exercise their choices, which are apparently subordinate to the shooter’s—and can we remind the shooter that if they kill someone there for medical reasons aren’t they also then killing the baby? How is that murder justified? I’ve read statistics showing how many people feel that abortion is a horrific wrong, but executing someone after the legal process has condemned him is totally fine. In fact, they think more executions should be happening. Isn’t there some kind of reasoning adjustment needed somewhere? (And by the way, I have consciously decided not to talk about San Bernardino here; it's just too much,)

And that applies to a lot of other people. So some people look different and dress in a way different from you; it doesn’t mean they’re out to get you. Maybe they’re just terrified that you might hurt them simply because of their looks. And let’s throw in comments on guns as well. I know people who own guns—none of them as advanced as I’ve been told we need. I think it’s fine that they have them. I don’t want them taken away without good cause. But let me ask you: What’s the matter with a background check? You’re right, criminals don’t have them. But maybe if the guy who buys a gun to sell to a criminal has to have a background check, it will make them a little harder to get. I read that in Australia, once they insisted on more background checks, crime actually dropped. Who here would have thought that?

So let’s return to the part where I said I am a Jew--and a woman. What bothers so many people about that? I haven’t asked you to convert. I've been told I'm not wanted in my town if I think my children should date Jews, That came from a woman who objected to her Catholic son dating a Protestant It was a little mind-boggling. So, don’t look down on me and mine if our belief system is different from yours. Don’t tell me you need to go in the back door of the synagogue so your non-Jewish friends won’t know that you have a Jewish friend (and yes, I know someone who did that; her priest thought that was just silly, but her mother was terrified someone would know). And don’t act like I’m stupid because I don’t see Jesus as a messiah—may I remind you that he was ours before he was yours?

As a woman I am entitled to my own thoughts. I don't need my husband to tell me how to vote, or what to do. In fact he would tell you he's fine with me having my own opinions, which don't always agree with his. Yes, I live on the East Coast and definitely in what would be considered a "liberal" area. But I also believe we need to hold common ground with people who think differently. Finding a way to work with all kinds of people can only help us all in the long run. Fear of others based on different beliefs can only breed contempt, and nothing will get done to suit everyone.

I’m done venting now and no, I'm really not out to get anyone. My friends come from diverse groups and religions--and there are some in mine with whom I radically disagree. I have just been thinking about how tiring it has to be to hold so much animus against so many people. And I will not hang my head in shame that I said any of this. I let you live with your beliefs and opinions, even if I think you’re completely wrong. In this country, we have the right of free speech and to have other opinions. I'll always stand up for your right to that, even if I think you're out of your mind. Like the second amendment, that's protected too.

Joy…Fear…Joy

I have heard it said that if we knew what fun grandchildren were we would have had them sooner. My husband even quoted that a week or so ago. All I know is that I love my grandchildren—we have one of each—and lately, I am unbelievable grateful to have them.

My granddaughter was born in fall 2013, and I was there as her parents came home, after a small snow event. It was hysterical to take her home in the stroller—the hospital was only a couple of blocks from their home—while there was snow on the grass and the sidewalks were just a little damp. I think she had at least 4 blankets piled above her and a wool cap pulled down on her head. Just taking her out of the stroller on arrival wasn’t easy. She is now a strong happy child and we revel in her love of life.

My grandson was born in December and this time my daughter had a better feel for what she needed to do afterwards and told us what she wanted us to do. We flew out 2 days later and spent several days just holding him and his sister, playing, and generally having a wonderful time. My mother and sister came later in the week to meet him, and to attend the bris. What no one could see coming was that the bris had to be delayed. My daughter called us before dawn that day to see if I would go with her to the hospital with him. He had decided to stop eating and there seemed to be something very wrong. My husband answered the phone and before he had two sentences out, I was out of bed and getting dressed. Before the call could be done I was fully dressed and waiting with my coat to find out what time I should be downstairs. Needless to say, I was early.

The only good thing about getting to a hospital at that hour is that parking is really easy. The rest, not so much. He was now a baby who looked like even he was afraid. He still didn’t want to eat but his vitals were fine. Shifts changed and we had a new doctor who was very determined to figure out what was going on, and he still was obviously ill. You know that things are bad when a baby doesn’t complain about the efforts to get a spinal tap. Yet, he was still very calm. You would think that a week-old child who is demonstrably ill would be crying constantly. He didn’t, and I’m afraid that he might not have had the strength to do so. That alone is terrifying.

Ultimately, they moved him to the pediatrics ward, which had doctors who knew how to get liquid into him and how to hit a spinal tap on the first try. But they still didn’t know what it was, although they were quite sure it was viral. (And to give everyone their due, this children’s hospital took care not only of him but also of his parents, patiently answering any and all questions from them, and even from the extended family.) By the next morning, he was having seizures, which necessitated more tests, heavy-duty medicines to stop the seizures, and more consultations. And then they moved him to the ICU. We could go into the room, but first there was hand washing, and putting on gowns, gloves, and masks. He must have been wondering who these creatures were.

Success at last! 

It took 3 days but there was an answer. Someone from the Infections Diseases department figured it out. He had an extremely rare virus that no one had heard of, and had never been seen in that hospital, or even, I suspect, that city. Once they knew who to call, everything started to change quickly. They knew what to do, they knew what to look for that might be causing the seizures. This virus can have one of two side effects, encephalitis or meningitis, which you really don’t want but can be treated. Now all of the other antibiotics that they had tried could be removed and actually healing could happen. Five days later you could see improvement almost by the hour. It was like a miracle.

They were able to bring him home 8 days after he was hospitalized--another miracle since the doctors thought he’d be there for 3 weeks. I had had a cold that week and didn’t find out until close to the end of the stay just how it had looked to see him with so many tubes and wires attached, and monitors beating. I gather it was heart wrenching. Yet, as he neared the end of his stay I was able to go in and got a picture of him looking right at me as if to say, “You looking at me, lady?” And yes, he came home with tubes attached to a portable oxygen tank but it was small, had a shoulder strap, and was the least thing to do for him. Besides, all babies need funky accessories.

Two weeks later we had the bris and I said to the rabbi, “How many of these do you have with an oxygen tank lying next to the child during the ceremonies?” and was stunned by his answer. Turns out that when you live at a higher elevation it’s not that uncommon for a newborn to come home with a portable oxygen tank. He never blinked at it, although at a month old the ceremony itself is a little harder to do.

Today, my grandson is off the oxygen and is a happy, healthy, constantly smiling child who is a joy to his family and all who meet him. My daughter and son-in-law sleep better at night, and his big sister kisses him as she walks past. As I said at the start, if we had known how much fun it was to have grandchildren, we would have done it sooner.

Baruch Ha-shem.