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Moving is worse than taking a beating

I’d just as soon take a beating as have to pack up and move.

It was the late comedian George Carlin who made famous the word “stuff,” as in how much “stuff” we have and how when we move, we pack all our “stuff” and we take it to a new place, and we then add more “stuff” to it, and before we know it, we are totally surrounded by all this “stuff,” and most of it, we don’t even need or remember that we have.

Well, I’m here to tell you that I actually threw away, gave away, and donated a lot of my “stuff” because I just didn’t want to keep hauling it around anymore.

You see, Samson, my 21-pound tomcat and I, recently moved into our new home here in Luverne. One funny thing, though—I found out just how many people had no idea that I already lived in Luverne.

“Oh, you live here? I thought you lived in Greenville.”

It’s hard to believe how quickly three years can go by, and, yes, I’ve been living in Luverne for almost three years now.

And three years of collecting more “stuff” warranted a good house-cleaning before I hauled anymore things around another single day.

In getting rid of clothes, furniture, and other small items that I no longer needed or wanted, I found a very liberating feeling. It was great to finally let go of those jeans that I wore in high school, knowing full well I couldn’t get my pinky toe in them anymore—or of donating and giving away books from my college years all the way back to when I was in grammar school. Talk about being a pack rat.

But during this purging process, I found many things that I had forgotten. Like my grandmother’s beautiful green tea pitcher that had been boxed up but is now proudly displayed in my new kitchen.

Or my long dining room table that had been in storage for so many years, a beautiful table that I had sorely missed—the table was handmade by a man in Randolph County, Ala. It even has wooden nails in it to give it a rustic finish. There had been many happy meals served at that table several years ago when Sacred Harp singers from all around the South would visit with me on a regular basis as we prepared for a weekend of singing and fellowship. I must admit, the first time I sat at that table to eat—something I had not done in years—I put my head in my hands and cried.

Samson did some cleaning out of his own. He decided his raggedy scratching post needed to be trashed, and his old maroon and gray food bowl, which was going on 10 years old, needed to be traded in for a new one. He did decide, however, that putting the treadmill in the back storage unit was a smart move—it only got in our way, especially since neither of us was using it much.

Moving, in and of itself, is a harrowing experience, but Sam and I made it through, thank goodness. There’s just one thing that’s really bothering him, however. A little bird, that I have dubbed “Sister,” has made a nest above the back porch, which leads to long pieces of straw falling here and there from her babies’ nest onto the porch. Even though I don’t mind sweeping up after her “nest cleaning,” it sure does drive Big Boy crazy when he hears all those babies chirp-chirping.

Now, that’s what I call surround sound.

Come on, Big Boy—let’s go enjoy our supper at the big table.