Moving isn’t just a logistical nightmare—it’s emotional triage. In the blistering heat, I found myself hauling relics that hadn’t budged in seven years, some tracing back twenty. Each item unearthed from the garage came with its own scent of decay: dust, spider eggs, rat urine. We dismantled, donated, discarded. It felt like a fire sale where the only currency exchanged was emptiness.
Over the past month, my daughter and I ran four garage sales. We donated truckloads—clothes, bedding, toys, tools, electronics. Anything she didn’t want for her new apartment had to go somewhere. The yard transformed into a landfill of cardboard, brittle plastic, and trash too sad to donate. Beneath that mess? A tangle of vines from a monster plant that had swallowed the front of the house whole.
I ordered a dumpster. It arrived three days later. I filled it to the brim in an hour and thought, “We could use three of these.”
And then there was the garage fungus. A white, pillowy growth erupting from a crack in the concrete like a nuclear cloud. Creepy doesn’t begin to cover it.
Our “stuff”—and the cabinets built to contain it—had clung to the walls like arterial plaque, making the space feel falsely cozy. But once we sold the oversized circular couch, two 55-inch TVs, the bedroom set with its massive headboard, and all the storage units… the house suddenly felt cavernous. Like it had been holding its breath for years.
With help from friends, we patched holes, spot-painted, and prepped for the movers. My daughter and grandson are settling into their new home today.
I hired a landscaper to clean up the yard, but the HOA trolls are already circling. One complained about my trailer parked out front while I prepped it for travel. So now I’m dodging the neighborhood watchdogs, keeping my SUV and camper tucked out of sight. Locked doors don’t offer much peace of mind.
The truck’s still hitched, which makes errands a pain. But it’s packed—generator, tools, supplies. Everything I need for the next chapter.
Tomorrow is my grandson’s ninth birthday. I’ll be here for that. Afterward, it’s FaceTime visits until who-knows-when. I’m proud of my daughter. Her new place is safe, functional, and tailored to the unique needs of parenting a profoundly autistic child. It’s a level of focus and stress most people can’t fathom. But she’s doing it. And doing it well.
My next post will be from the road. Wherever that road leads—one way or another.
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