Christopher Pratt (cpratt) wrote,
Christopher Pratt

The day fades over Salmonberg

I'm sitting upstairs in what in six days will used to have been our house. We moved in just over four years ago; the view is still calming, the birdsong sporadic and faint, and the light soft, pale, scant.

It's taken three and a half days to pare down everything so that it fits in a 26' rental truck, but it's definitely been worth it. For the last five years or so, my parents have lived in a London flat that's the size of just one story of this house, and I've envied them their simplicity, joy, and tidiness. I'm done with moving into ever bigger houses, shopping to fill the void, and worrying if I'll ever need something again (no, I won't, and if I do, I can build or buy its replacement).

A lot of things have gone: the Simmons Beautyrest futon I bought in Vallejo sixteen years ago so that I could finally have a bed big enough to share with my boyfriend, the globe that sat in our living room at home forever (seriously, it's lovely, but with wireless 'Net access and Wikipedia, who needs it?), my grandfather's toolchest (I opened it for the first time last night, discovering that there was absolutely nothing in it that was personal, save for my Mom's old Vidal Sassoon hairdryer and two handcut print blocks for Christmas cards that my grandfather cut in 1958 - guess which one I saved), and... well, even though most of it is still in the garage awaiting haulage to the dump on Monday, I already can't remember what it is. It's just stuff, after all, and what matters are friends, family, experiences, travel, libraries, repairs, making do, reasonableness, all of that good stuff.

Tomorrow morning we drive to Yreka (where I've stayed once before, with a German woman named Ulrike on our way to the Arno Schmidt conference in Portland sixteen years ago); Sunday, we drive to Long Beach; Monday, we drive to our apartment in Mission Valley, San Diego. With any luck we'll offload all of our crap from the truck on Monday. Tuesday, the crap in the back of the truck (books, CDs, etc.) gets put into storage and then we return the truck.

To everyone we've been able to share time in Salmonberg with: I'm grateful you were able to enjoy this place (and that I was able to enjoy your company). To everyone who was not: it was lovely, but it wasn't the right place for us, and I hope to see you in southern California.

As Alasdair Gray sometimes ends his novels... 'goodbye!'
Tags: move

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