|Here are our two comfy chairs and fluffy blankets. I had the lamp on the table made for Tom for Christmas in 2007 along with three bowls and another lamp from downed trees in our yard. A storm the prior August felled 20 trees in our yard. Everything you see in this picture will be sold at our upcoming estate sale October 25-28th.|
In January, when our plans to travel the world were mulling around our heads, we gradually began the process of rummaging through every cupboard, drawer, and closet, contemplating mementos worthy of saving, that which to toss, ultimately what to sell.
Practically speaking, it was a necessary process. Emotionally, it was filled with laughter recalling the stories attached to the photos, the trinkets, the handmade crafts from our children when young and now from our grandchildren.
With tear filled eyes we have accepted the price we must pay to let go of one dream in order to build another, saying goodbye, first to those we love, second, to the peninsula home and all that it has contained, that which we have treasured and enjoyed.
How do we say goodbye to these two comfy chairs, our fluffy blankets neatly folded during each day to be tossed onto our laps each night, winter and summer, when the air conditioning, the bowl of ice cream and sheer exhaustion rendered us chilled and sleepy?
The conversations we shared in these chairs, the giggles we couldn’t control while sitting here either together or while watching the grandchildren play with the big tote of toys we continued to fill over the years with newly found treasures.
Yes, we are grateful as we venture out into this unknown new territory of our lives, away from the familiar, the predictable, the routine that we have never found to be mundane or, to be boring.
We loved the routine; Tom, rushing out the door to chase the pesky geese off of the lawn in summer or blowing the copious amounts of snow blocking the narrow road here on the peninsula in the winter, often too high for him to accomplish requiring that we call the guy with the bobcat.
Whether marching up and down the stairs to the basement each day in a futile effort to finally finish the laundry or enthusiastically preparing our lofty health-promoting nightly dinners, the routine, two years after my retirement was still comforting and peaceful. So simple.
And neverm and I mean never, did he walk in the door after a long day’s work, did I not greet him at the door with a kiss so heartfelt and yet, so routine that moments later, we’d often kiss hello again, uncertain if we’d already kissed. This simple routine will be changed when seldom leaving each other’s side, beginning six weeks from today.
Whether it was the dinner parties for friends laden with adventurous dishes and printed menus, the ambitious meals for the family working around special diets and food allergies, the ear splitting noise of the kids playing rambunctiously amid our patient observation, we loved it all.
And now, six weeks to go. We’ll walk out the door for the last time. We’ll have already kissed all of them all goodbye with tear filled eyes, holding back the sobs with the hope of appearing strong. The house will be empty, the belongings sold and taken away, the bed, staying until the last night of anticipated fitful sleep.
It will be Halloween that day. Tom’s SUV will be loaded up with the orange luggage. For the first time in our adult lives, we won’t anxiously wait by the door to hand out a special treat to the well-dressed young visitors.
Saying goodbye. Not so simple.