Taking Care
by Alice D. Outwater, Ph.D.

1-800-I-GOT-JUNK and OTHER
TALES OF MOVING

“What do you mean you sold the house in five days? That’s absurd!” a friend said.
My husband, now in assisted living at Converse Home, wondered if the house was too much for me. “It’s a lot of work and the stairs are becoming a problem; you know how quirky my knee is,” I said.
That evening I looked around and realized how many things required attention: ceiling plaster peeling, a slightly leaky bathroom pipe, wiring that needed replacing and loosened patio stones. The more I looked, the more I found.
How could I ever clean out this house with 54 years of accumulation? I prided myself on being a reasonably good housekeeper, but oh, how I filled the closets. If I spent several months attending to the repair items and paid a hefty bill, I would have to stay another three years; by then I’d be so old.
I’ve never relished workmen banging around at 7:00 a.m., talking endlessly on their cell phones, and then being on yet another break as I look out the window. I often felt uneasy about estimates and never knew if the completed work was what had been promised.
Gregg, a building inspector, arrived to look the house over. He sent a lengthy report listing all the above items and more. “You’ve certainly cared for the property but 54 years later things need to be updated.”
I called Brian, the real estate agent down the street. “I need advice,” I implored, “and will pay you for an hour.”
“No, don’t pay me. I’ll be right down,” he replied.
Five minutes later I opened the door. “Alice, I have a perfect buyer for you.”
“But that’s impossible!” I countered. “I might want to sell it myself.”
In the end I agreed to let him show the house to this one client.
Sunday I had four hours to prepare: I ran around throwing everything in closets and remembered my daughter advising, “Be sure to arrange large bouquets of fresh flowers everywhere and bake cinammon cookies in the oven.” I glanced in the breakfast room and noticed the bananas had a brown stripe, so I threw them in the closet and tore to the grocery store.
A couple of harried hours later, the doorbell rang and there stood a lovely young couple. “Oh, this reminds me of my grandmother’s house,” she said. He admired the oak doors and details in the woodwork.
I mentioned what I had in mind: “We’ve loved the house. I hope for a fair price; you need to know everything that requires attention and are welcome to the inspector’s report. I hope whoever buys it will put it back into top shape so it will go on for the next half century.”
As it turned out the man Charlie, met his wife at Middlebury, was a religion major, and now restored old houses.
Five days later they put in their bid. I was stunned but ecstatic until I heard I had only 10 weeks to be out. How would I ever do that? I didn’t have a place to live, so everything would have to be packed and stashed in storage.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Brian said, “this will be FUN! I have a woman who can help you. She’s moved people up from New York.”
Reassured and still glowing with the relief at the fine family wanting the house, I opened the door to greet 20-year-old Stacey in her little shorts with coffee in hand.
Fairly bouncing up and down, she said, “We’ll have the best time! I moved my mother from New York in a station wagon. Where do we start?” I sensed her youthful energy. Mine had long since vanished.
I sketched out my plan: “My daughter in Africa is e-mailing that she hopes I will recycle everything. We have 1,000 books, and the librarian said they would welcome all but ones with broken spines or yellowed pages. A rare book man looked over our more valuable collections. The clothes will go to the Salvation Army, one of the churches and SCHIPs in Shelburne. Recycle North will take the other odd items. Hazardous Waste will take any toxic paint. All this will make it easier for me to part with things. Someone else will use them. Above all, I’m not going to complain about the task ahead.”
My husband had manufactured machines and testing equipment in the basement and shipped them worldwide. There resided a 40-year collection of tools and some unfinished machines. Extra materials were stored over the garage. I rarely visited these untidy areas.
Bill R. had dutifully done our repairs for years; to show our appreciation, the children and I agreed he should just take everything he wanted. He delightedly toted out two truckloads.
Then I telephoned 1-800-Got-Junk. Two hours later they arrived to clear out the rest, assuring me they recycle everything possible. There was nary a complaint about the heavy loads they dragged up from the cellar that hot June day. They carefully swept out the basement and garage, polite as could be, and gaily waved out the truck window saying, “You’re going to need us again. We’ll wait for your call.”
I thought this ridiculous as there was little left. The basement hadn’t been that clear for decades. Even the spiderwebs were visible.
Meanwhile Stacey and I tackled the clothes, hanging them in clothes containers; we plowed through the shoes, and on and on it went. I found two boxes of the children’s crayoned pictures drawn in kindergarten, report cards from grade school, letters written when they were older. Why ever had I saved all these? Ah, but then came a sheaf of tender love letters and poetry from John, written during our courtship, wrapped in blue satin ribbons.
The oil paintings needed to be specially wrapped, and there was the matter of antique furniture, a grandfather’s clock, a highboy and delicate chairs – most of which had been in the family for several generations and crossed the Atlantic a few times. Next were the plates, cups and saucers, glassware; they seemed to go on endlessly, neatly stacked in the cupboard. They contained our family history. I began to feel a heavy sense of stewardship.
Meanwhile, I didn’t know where I would be living and was beginning to feel like an orphan. I returned to my realtor, who had managed the sale so well. “Brian, I’ve got to find something,” I implored. And we did, but it was condo yet to be built. I essentially bought a hole in the ground with assurances it would be ready by Thanksgiving. This meant everything had to go into storage. As the condo would be ample size, I would be keeping most of the furniture.
In spite of never having had a yen to build, I immediately loved the location, the well-designed rooms and the views. I would reinvent myself and go all green and modern. But it meant needing to select everything from fixtures to flooring whenI had expected just to move somewhere and freshen up a room or two with paint.
As the moving date loomed closer, I became more uneasy. I just pretended I could make it— and I did. My children came to help; the movers packed fragile items for a day, and finally the huge truck drew up outside the house.
Shawn and two men walked in, “Oh, Alice, I see you’re not quite ready, we’ll return tomorrow.”
“Don’t even think of leaving! It’s only a few more things, they’ll be ready to be loaded by afternoon,” I assured him. All day they willingly hauled furniture and boxes up and down stairs while Molly, my new helper, and I threw last items in a bedroom to be recycled.
They returned to finish the following day, which was also the day of closing. Molly came again to help, Julie came to clean, two men wet-vacuumed the basement, and 1-8oo-Got-Junk guys were there to take the rest. Eight people running around. Brian dropped by to say the new owners were coming to do their inspection. This was too much.
“No, no, we’re not ready yet. This isn’t how I envisioned it,” I replied.
They came and generously said, “We know Alice will be out by 9:00 a.m. tomorrow. We’ll see you at the closing in an hour.” They left.
Julie, who never bossed me around, stood at the top of the stairs with Molly and said firmly, “Alice, leave immediately. We’ll take care of everything.”
Brian and I drove to the lawyer’s office where everyone was assembled around a polished maple table. They rose in unison and greeted me. We signed papers, the check was handed over, and everyone congratulated me. Charlie and his wife, the new homeowners, brought out champagne and glasses for a toast: “We are honored to own your Tudor house and hope we will do it justice. You are the classiest lady I’ve ever seen.”
Everyone agreed and I thanked them for doing their parts.
It was late afternoon when I returned to bless the house. The sun shimmered on the living room floor. A sense of contentment swept through me. “Please watch over this new family as you did ours,” I murmured to the house.
It was August 12. That evening I drove to our summer cottage by the lake and glanced across the bay to see all the other cottages dark. Their owners had pulled out after the rainy weather. “Where are all my buddies? I’ve come to play with you,” I said out loud.
Moving is never easy. I took pride in having met the deadline and managed it well.
And I hadn’t complained to anyone – except once to Stephanie, my hairdresser.