PS, y’all.

I’m taking a break from directly reading or posting on Social Media. In all my OCD personality, I spent hours each day on Facebook. No writing was getting done. No housemoving was getting done.

I’ve been without Facebook for a little while now and miss interacting with friends, but seem to be making progress in productivity and packing.

And have time to think and plan.

Once upon a time in a small Texas neighborhood… There were children’s Easter egg hunts and Halloween hayrides, roving groups of small children trick or treating, clusters of parents and kids waiting for school buses. It was idyllic and wonderful beyond words.

There were small get togethers of moms drinking wine, or quick meetups at a nearby French bistro chain.

There were neighbors who got my children off the bus when I was staying with my dying mother. There were neighbors who checked our house for hurricane wind damage after we’d evacuated. There were neighbors who got up in the middle of the night to shut our inexplicably self opening garage door when we were away. And invitations to birthday parties and graduations. Potluck suppers.

The women who kept all this happening moved away for work transfers or to more ritzy neighborhoods. The wine nights stopped, then kids started going to local church “harvest festivals”.

Now I’m trying to sleep the last night in our old house. Sadness and irritation keep me awake. And the leftover heebie-jeebies from dealing with crazy tow truck drivers earlier. Sad because only two of my friends seem to care we’re moving away. Neighbors I cherished think I’m already gone.

So I’m having a middle of the night one woman pity party. Woe is me.

At least I had these things for a long while, the best neighborhood one could ask for in life, neighbors who treated me like a sibling. Who helped me herd ducklings out of busy streets.

Life goes on, and it’s time for a new adventure. Onward.


My mother hardly ever gave things away. Maybe it came from being a Depression Era child. Maybe it was from being a single mom getting no child support, and being paid a pittance as a Louisiana educator.

The fact remains she died with an attic stuffed with fifty-year-old toys, Life magazines, dance costumes, and more. I used to be the opposite. She was horrified when I scavenged the attic for our only garage sale. It was like I’d sold our ancestors’ remains to a medical school.

Living in tiny dorm rooms, efficiencies, and apartments was easy. I didn’t have enough stuff to own clutter. Then came marriage, children, family estates, and one day I became my mother’s child. I owned stuff. Stuff with emotional strings and baggage.

I open a unmarked box and find dolls from my childhood, then quickly shut it. They’re a little scary looking after fifty years in my mother’s hot attic. But “so and so” gave them to me… Sentimentality is a very sticky thing, like a spider’s web.

But now there are hard limits. We no longer have the luxury of squirreling things in our new attic. Heck, the climb way up there already petrifies service people. It’s a dang aluminum ladder attic access, with a long access pole I need a tall stepladder to grasp.

Nobody’s hauling Mamaw’s knickknacks up there. We’re too afraid of plummeting to our doom.

So there’s the motivation. Now to winnow down almost twenty years of occupation and being on the receiving end of estates.

Send wine. Lots of it.


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