ALL MY WORLDLY GOODS

My family moved once when I was growing up, and it was very exciting.  As moves go, it was not terribly strenuous: we moved from our old house, where we’d lived since the beginning of time (that is, as far back as my memory reached), to a larger house on the other end of town.  There were none of the long farewells to old friends or cross-country expeditions that you see in movies.  We were only moving a few miles, and at age eight, the inconvenience of having all my possessions packed away into boxes was not enough to overwhelm the thrill of a new home.

There was only one tragedy, one thing to regret as my sister and I explored our expansive new habitat.  In the midst of the move, in a sort of reverse-Dorothy accident, a bed had been dropped on our dollhouse.  It was completely unfair, as the dollhouse had none of the wickedness of the Witch-of-the-East, but it had been as honest a mistake as Dorothy’s landing in Oz.  We were not immediately aware of this catastrophe, but when it came to light, it hinted at a more sinister side of the relocation process.

I’ve had thirteen years since the untimely demise of the dollhouse to recognize just how tiresome it is to have to move.  My father-in-law was in the military when my husband was young, and Mark had lived in four places by the time he was six.  I don’t know how they kept from going crazy, because I think the constant packing up and moving around would have driven me mad very quickly.  It’s not the change of locale that would have bothered me, but the endless necessity of transporting so many personal possessions from place to place to place to place.  I’ve had to endure this process (though over short distances) four times in the past two years, and the current outlook is that Mark and I will be repeating the process at least three times in the coming months.

I feel very exposed when my belongings are in limbo between homes.  It’s as though the contents of my soul are spread out over too great and uncertain an area.  Maybe that’s what it’s like to have horcruxes.  (Does this seem overly melodramatic?)  This feeling never ceases to cause pangs of guilt, since it can only point to unhealthy attachments to unnecessary stuff.  It’s not even that I care about most of what I own to any great extent, but it’s mine, and I like having my ducks (or pots, or pans, or what have you) in a row.  Or in cupboards.  Or on shelves.  Or in drawers.  Someplace where I can find them.

           

Moving always makes me want to get rid of things.  It makes me want to simplify.  It makes me envy the orphan that Matthew Cuthbert retrieves in the second chapter of Anne of Green Gables.  I think you’re supposed to pity her when she refuses his offer to carry her bag.  “Oh, I can carry it,” she says.  “It isn’t heavy.  I’ve got all my worldly goods in it, but it isn’t heavy.”  How meager her prior existence must have been, if everything she owns fits into one lightweight carpet bag!  Yet I find myself (and not for the first time!) wishing that I was Anne Shirley.  How sweet, how glorious, how beautifully simple it would be to have everything I owned in one bag!  I could happily live in a new place every week if I could reduce myself to such a minimal way of life.  Would that I could do it!

For a neat and easy solution, I shall turn to another famous carpet-bag-carrier: Mary Poppins.  She has only a single bag, yet she is not forced to sacrifice prized possessions for ease of transport!  A magically-expanded suitcase seems just the thing.  So neat, so elegant.  There would be plenty of room to carry all my dishes, space for clothes, and maybe even a corner in which to tuck away a dollhouse.

Thirteen years ago, as my family was settling into our new house, while my sister and I were excitedly uncovering its secrets, my father declared that he didn’t intend to move again until he moved to Heaven.  You’ll remember that I was only eight, and this decidedly unadventurous declaration seemed almost stiflingly boring.  But the older I get (and how ancient I am now, at twenty-one!), the more I can sympathize with this sentiment.  How beautiful it will one day be to leave everything behind, to escape into eternity unhampered! 

Until that day, I shall continue my search for a bottomless carpetbag.  I wouldn’t turn up my nose at a flying umbrella, either.  It does seem like the sort of thing that would come in frightfully handy.