Slom, Drinds and Blue Jeans

Jean Kerr, author of several books, wrote of her experience in having movers come and pack up her household goods and label them variously for the relocation to their new home.

After laughing myself silly at the antics of her family in her books and the puzzlement over the indication that one box contained 'Sloms, Drinds and Blue Jeans', I realized we have all shared something similar in our lives.

During the course of our married life we have moved like nomads in search of an oasis several times. School, jobs and sanity propelled us to make the moves. One such time, we had a box carefully labeled 'stuff'.

Upon opening the box, I discovered the contents to be pens with no ink, pencils that were broken or worn down to the nub, a broken plastic ruler, empty pencil lead tubes, some scissors that needed to be sharpened and repointed, rubber bands that were no longer elastic and a host of other desk drawer items that most certainly were bound for the dumpster instead of the moving van.

Why we kept these little gems is beyond my comprehension.

Likewise, we had other boxes which were dutifully moved WITHOUT OPENING THEM for a couple of moves.

I finally decided that if there was something we truly NEEDED in those cartons, we would have opened it up long ago and threw them out.

Having mentioned that to a lady at church one day, the look of horror that crossed her face let me know that I had committed sin tantamount to throwing the baby out with the bathwater.

Stammering her objections to me she said, "But what if there was something VALUABLE in those boxes?"

When I recovered my breath from laughing so hard I got a stitch in my side, I truthfully informed her that we were NOT related to the Getty's and that we didn't HAVE any valuables.

While I haven't ever employed professional movers to help us relocate, I have used the assistance of friends, church members and people from work who owed me a favor. This might explain the contents of the 'stuff' box that defied all worldly explanation. I can take solace in the fact that maybe, just maybe, I DIDN'T pack that box and maybe someone else is to blame!

At the end of the yard sale today, I was left with a collection of things that simply had been trotted out too many times to be useful to anyone anymore. They hadn't sold and weren't going to sell. It was time to pack them up and make that long drive to the thrift shop and donate them to a charitable cause that could get a nickle out of the stuff that I couldn't sell.

I have noticed that stuff which wouldn't garner a second glance at a yardsale is stocked in a thrift store shelf somewhere, it starts looking like a much better deal than in someone's garage or on a table under the tree on their lawn.

Not sure why that is, but it exists nonetheless.

It is almost as if somehow the legitimacy of a storefront makes junk seem a bit better than it does when it lies on a table filled with dusty knick-knacks like posed pigs and cute kittens in a wall hanging display.

It's an elevation in status by location. That, of course, is the first rule of business - location, location, location.

If only I could move my yard sale to a store front with helpful and understanding clerks who could move the "junk" into the realm of "merchandise".

Maybe the secret is to find a family who is moving, and carefully drive by and deposit a strangely labeled box in their moving van which has been filled to the brim with those things that you no longer wish to keep.

Then imagine the fun when they arrive at the new place only to discover a box that everyone swears they didn't pack!!!

Oh well. Delusion has set in and it's time for bed.

Besides which, I don't have any neighbors who are moving . . . yet.