Wrapping Up

We've spent the last three days methodically plodding away at the lengthy To-Do List. Taking pictures down from the walls, packing (Oh! The packing! Will it ever, ever end?), throwing away car-load after car-load of stuff. The dump here has what we fondly call "Treasure Island"-- a covered concrete slab where people put their trash. I mean, treasures. Other people circle around like vultures waiting to pounce on anything slightly interesting. I don't know what we would do without it! It allows me to get rid of things that normally I would feel too guilty to throw out. But, I know they will never make it to the landfill.

John dropped off our lawn mower that is about as old as we are and has started shedding a different wheel and spewing out mangled pieces of metal whenever used. (Which, in Fairbanks is approximately three times a year). Someone swooped right in there and grabbed it up. I hope they are wearing protective shin guards when they turn that sucker on.

We dropped off bags and bags of books, clothes with holes in them, a filthy old microwave, two half-used bags of charcoal, some old boots, a gimpy Golden Retriever named Canyon. Two hours later they were all gone. Well, with the exception of a book titled Hiking in Connecticut and Canyon. So, we took her back home with us. We left the book there.

On a completely unrelated note: Becca has an irrational fear of the vacuum cleaner. Whenever it is on, she starts screaming, stomping and pointing to it, yelling out, "Mama!" or "Dada!" (whoever happens to be operating it at the moment.) It is as though she is desperately trying to warn us to get away from that evil thing. She has started crying when it is just sitting there, unplugged and OFF. Due to the full scale crisis mode that ensues whenever it comes out, I have just decided to leave it in the closet, never to vacuum again. Occasionally, John gets fed up with the level of nastiness on the carpet and busts that sucker out to traumatize everyone.

Yesterday, he took it out of the closet --just to look for Canyon's dog booties, not to vacuum, mind you--and Becca, the World's Least Cuddly Baby, ran right over to me and clung on for dear life. My little monkey. I can't say I minded it.

I hope to post another entry before we leave, but you just never know. Tonight is our last REAL night in the house. We will be here for a few more, but I don't know what will be packed and what will be available. We're going to eat a dinner with the last of the freezer's chicken and then watch the movie Flags of Our Fathers.

The movers come tomorrow morning and will be here for three days. Joy. I hate dealing with the movers. They start on the first day hinting around about a tip. Am I supposed to tip them? I mean, they are going to drive off with all my household goods in their truck. I don't really want to piss them off. Also, you know napping will be out of the question. I would feel a little odd saying, "You're doing a great job tossing all my picture frames in one box without any bubble wrap. I'm just going to pop into the bed and sleep for a while. Do you mind keeping it down out here? Oh, and don't steal that sweet-ass stereo circa 1993. Thanks."