For the second time in less than nine months, my parents are moving. Averse to hiring others to carry out any service that might conceivably be accomplished by their own hands, they've again refused to employ professionals, despite having accumulated a truly monumental quantity of junk over the course of their thirty-five year marriage. This, my friends, is an ovation-worthy achievement in the field of crap. It's now Day Eight of the move, and we've reached the point in the process where we're all so exhausted that we communicate solely in three formats: the snipe, the snark, and the screech.
I am frustrated, of course, because I see no point in doing anything oneself when there exists the potential for throwing money at someone else to do it. My mother is frustrated because everyone else involved in Project: Move is intractably lazy and continues to insist on taking breaks to partake in needless activities such as eating or, on occasion, breathing. My father is mercilessly trapped in the vortex created when the epitome of postmodern sloth collides with the 21st century embodiment of the Puritan Work Ethic. He is a brave and stoic man.
The following is an archetypal list of ten things we have now transported, by the power of our persons, from the Indiana McMansion to the Ann Arbor rental house to the brand new McMansion v. 2.0:
A scythe
My Cabbage Patch Kids-themed childhood bigwheel
Three boxes of American Heritage magazines dating from the mid-1950's to the late 1960's
A broken manual typewriter
A diorama based on "Misty of Chincoteague" created during my fifth grade Blue Period.
One hammock, with stand
A miniature pool table, last used circa 1989. The cues remain MIA.
The pump we used to blow up inflatable boats and rafts when we lived on a lake. We don't anymore.
Two fishing rods, three racquetball racquets, two pairs of cross-country skis, a basketball, sixteen whiffle balls, an orange plastic sled, a yellow banana-shaped skateboard, and a pogo stick. No family member has participated in a recreational activity necessitating these accessories in the post-Y2K era.
One box labeled "bum statue" and one box labeled "drunk statue." No one is entirely sure what these boxes contain, and we managed to convince each other that opening them mid-move would only slow us down. They will go directly to the basement, and I will have to deal with them when my parents die.
A cassette tape of Jimmy Swaggart's sermons, originally the property of my great aunt