Packing Day

I'm sitting in the midst of dozens and dozens of packing boxes, wondering how we managed to accumulate so much and, more alarming, how much more we have left to do. Following the advice of friends and bloggers, we've fed and watered our crew and I've cranked the A/C down to 72 degrees. This is to (supposedly) ensure good will so that they will do a better job packing. I've also sweetened the deal by distributing our liquor amongst them: Maker's Mark, Cabo Wabo, and generic Vodka. The only caveat is that they don't drink until they're done.

Last night I started shaking in a frantic, palsied sort of way. Didn't stop for and hour or so or, Pat says, until I dropped off to sleep. Must have been in a panic about all this. The fact that we're actually leaving this house, home for 24 years, is really just sinking in. I won't see any of our possessions for, perhaps, a year. That alone is enough to make me dizzy but, as a neighbor said, it's just stuff.

Pizza and Rain

So this is, perhaps, the last time we'll snuggle up together during a thunderstorm eating Valentino's primo pizza. I don't think we'll ever find another pizza like they make at our little Titusville pizza place. Fresh garlic, tomatoes, slightly limp crust (when it's at it's best).
I'm sitting on our back porch, looking through the screen at the pond behind our neighbor's house thinking about the only other thing I'll miss about Titusville. The light - at a particular evening hour - is golden, washing our walls with a buttery glow. We've been fortunate to have this piece of land. This rural neighborhood is beautiful, though it imprisoned me for the last 24 years. I longed for sidewalks and neighbors taking strolls with families. I was lucky to see cars drive by occasionally, instead. For most of my children's youth the UPS and FedEx drivers were the most frequent visitors at the front door.
Now, the rain stopped, the drips splatting from the eaves, the shimmering of the water, I can appreciate the beauty of the place. But I won't miss it.