We have moved a lot of times.
I recently counted them all and realized we have lived in 20 places in 38 years, and we have at least one more move to go, into our house whenever it is finished (please, Lord, let it happen). I would like to blame it on Ben's career in the Navy, but the truth is that only five of our moves were their fault. The rest, I guess, are because we are closet gypsies.
Neither of us moved a lot as children, but my family spent some summers traveling around the country in our little camper, so maybe that's where I get my willingness to go. Ben is a visionary and has always said he can't stop wondering what's over the next hill. Together we keep the real estate industry hopping.
One of my favorite parts of moving is finding all the new things—the new library, the parks, the grocery stores (I am old enough to have a favorite), and in the last few years, the hiking trails. Now that we have map apps, I love learning my way around a new place. Back when my kids were small we could live in an area for years before we realized this road connected to that one on the other side of town. Life was full of fun discoveries.
Moving when we were in the Navy was a breeze. The detailer gives you your move date. Two days beforehand, a van pulls in the driveway and three people get out. They come in your house hauling all manner of boxes, paper, tape, and sharpies. By the end of the day your entire life is packed and labeled, including your garbage if you forget to take it out. (I am not making this up; it has been known to happen.) The next day a big truck parks out front and life as you know it is loaded up and hauled away by three big, burly men, one of whom looks amazingly like Jerry Garcia, leaving you in an empty house. If you want a blanket and pillow for the night, you have to hide them from the packers and movers.
Since most of our moves were without the benefits of the armed services, we did what they call "ditty" moves. That comes from the acronym DIY with the inclusion of the T so it's pronounceable. Military people are full of ingenuity, and every thing you do must have an associated acronym. We learned early on to always save boxes for the next move, because there surely would be one. Or 20.
I also learned not to keep a lot of stuff, which was easy for me. I take after my grandmother, who regularly purged the old farmhouse. There was not a knickknack to be found; even the little trinkets she received as gifts didn't last long. She would have made Marie Kondo proud—apparently nothing sparked joy.
Yes, I am a full-blooded minimalist like her. Ben is . . . not. If you saw his barn, you would agree. Sometimes I am stunned at the amount of stuff he can cram into a 1200-square-foot building plus a loft. Last time I was looking for something, I found an ancient, falling-apart Rubbermaid container full of electrical parts we bought when we were "building" our house in Noodleville in 2003. If you weren't around for that, it was basically a 1600-square-foot bomb shelter set into a hill on 6 acres with poured-solid concrete block walls on three sides and windows all the way across the front so you could see the gubmint coming and get a good aim. I am not making this up either. The house was built by a guy affectionately known as "Crazy Dave," and set into the hill so that you could step off the hill in the back right onto the roof. I wish I had pictures but I was too shocked by what we were buying to take any. We found the attic stockpiled with candles and paper towels. What were they prepping for? We found out when we tried to cut a window in one of the block walls that they were also reinforced with rebar. I've never felt safer.
But I digress.
The giant Rubbermaid tub contains extra outlets and switches we intended to use but obviously bought way too many of. They are now somewhat mangled, filthy, and mostly rusted. The barn also contains hundreds (thousands?) of little wound-up wads of braided poly fence wire. There's probably enough that, if we strung it end-to-end, we could give our cows a paddock the size of Utah.
An enormous assortment of hardware, plus all the parts of an old wood-burning cook stove that, assembled and cleaned up, would sell for $9500, are floating randomly around the building. There is literally (used in the literal sense) too much to list.
Ben never met my grandfather, but they are two peas in a pack-rat pod. Pop-pop used to say, "That might come in handy one day," and that is Ben's motto too. I am of the mind that, if it were going to be handy, it would have been by now. Ben says you never know . . .
In our basement right this minute there are three large boxes of old newspapers because you never know when you'll need to start a very big fire. There are two stacks of 70 egg cartons to hold the eggs we will get from the chickens we don't yet have. You can't be too prepared. There is a scope for a black powder rifle that was last used in 1987. And so much more.
What got me started thinking about all this was last week, when I was canning some tomatoes. I have a large dish-pak box that has quart jars still wrapped in their paper in the basement. (I've learned not to unpack things if you don't need them right away. It saves you having to repack them for the next move. Follow me for more lifestyle tips.) (Also, for the record, this is one of the few things stored in the basement that is mine. Just to clarify.) So I grabbed the jars I needed and carried them upstairs.
As I was unwrapping them to put in the dishwasher, I came across this gem:
I had so many questions. Is 18-year-old mullein still good? Is it moldy? We'll never know; the cap was rusted on the jar.
How many lung ailments have we suffered through, not knowing this cache was wrapped snugly downstairs? How did I even know about mullein in 2004? Wasn't I just a child?
In case you didn't know, mullein is an herb that is helpful for clearing the lungs. It grows wild all over the farm:
(Photo courtesy of Amazon. My farm is not this perfect.)
The leaves are thick and fuzzy, and the plants get huge, as in six feet or more tall. (Sorry, I didn't mean for this to turn into an herb lesson, but just in case you're ever in a pinch and have bronchitis, this stuff is magical. Make tea, strain through a coffee filter. Add honey because it's disgusting. You're welcome.)
I am only partway through that box of jars, so now I'm wondering what other treasures it holds. I'm not going to go searching though. I'm going to leave them where they are so I can find them at random times and have this much fun all over again. And also be prepared for the next move.