About five weeks into living in the cabin and three months since we left South Florida, I still have unpacked boxes.
If my writing “South Florida” as though it’s a different state from Florida stands out, it is. South Florida and the rest of the state are night and day different. The Spanish language is predominant in Miami, Hialeah and other cities. That’s a heated debate (controversio caliente?). There’s an amazing diversity of food, music, art and culture (and I’m saying that as a native New Yorker). Driving?
Driving is simply survival. I became such an aggressive driver from living there. I went from being scared to exit a small traffic circle to dodging dump trucks at 6:00 am in the left hand lane of an eight lane highway at 80 miles per hour.
The police simply do not have time or “people power” (and it’s liberal, no “man power”) to control traffic or help with non-fatal car wrecks (not knocking the police, I would never want that job and I especially would not want it there). People drive any speed that they want, in any lane. Stop signs are invisible to many and my visiting cousin once told me that I saved his life with a bit of driving advice. When the lights turns green, look both ways before proceeding.
I could carry on more than I already have, but back to the topic.
As we made our way north into calmer traffic (with the exception of Atlanta), with a loooong trailer containing 19 years of household content, much of it remained in boxes.
We began with a rental property from which to do our house shopping and it didn’t seem prudent to unpack and do it all over again once we settled on a place. We were bargain shopping and found a fixer-upper cabin. It’s lovely and rustic, so many of our belongings remained packed and in a trailer as we insulated, sheet-rocked, floored and painted.
This is what I discovered. For three months, there has been a fair amount of possessions that not only did I not need on a daily basis, but I entirely forgot that I owned. Some I was happy to rediscover and they evoked great emotion upon unpacking, but others simply no longer served a purpose in my life and could be passed on to people who may value them more.
I was always pretty decent at cycling through my belongings for donation. I kept a container by the front door for this purpose. It took me until about age thirty-five to stop feeling guilty about giving away gifts that I would never use. I appreciated the effort and expense (a representation of more effort on the giver’s part) that people went through to consider and obtain gifts for me. It took me years longer to begin letting birthday and holiday cards go. I had many storage containers with cards organized chronologically. Sorting them was time consuming, and then a pandemic granted me some free time. Also, the trailer would only hold so much.
I sorted and donated before moving, but in the process of unpacking, I sought out a new donation center. I also changed the way I donated over the years. While “discharging” old belongings (thank you, Harper Lee) can be freeing, my pastor spoke one time of donating with the spirit of giving and wishing that those items are needed and put to use by another. That helped me a great deal with procrastinating about giving possessions away.
Also, it all comes full circle. I was changing climates. After more than two decades in South Florida, I needed more jeans, fleeces, boots and coats. I was grateful for the discount prices I paid for so much of the clothing that I bought before I left, where the prices were driven down by sweltering temperatures, specifically on winter-wear.
It was not lost on me that we journeyed cross-country hauling some belongings just to give them away. But if someone can use any of it, and I learned to pare down, it was worth the space taken and incremental fuel difference. There are still a few boxes left as settling-in continues, but I am not too worried about where it will all go. I found a great donation place downtown with the word “Love” in it’s name.