The painting inside the house is done. The house is slowly, very slowly moving back to orderliness. My life, is unfortunately still functioning on a different note from the leisurely do-nothing-unpleasant it has been holding for some time.
I feel rather uneasy in the house.Everything is crisp and clean and strange. I hesitate to put grubby hands even on a light switch. I can't be casual.It's like living in someone else's house. Exciting but formal.
At first the empty rooms looked wonderful. Then they got a bit filled with our not-so-smart furniture, and looked less like an ad for good living. Then came all the little things we need for comfort but aren't so good looking like the room heater on an old stool, the scattered clothes and books and stuff that is yet to find a place. Its fast becoming a bunch of rooms called home.
We are determined to throw out lots of stuff. But whose?
My husband thinks the fiction should go out first, I feel his piles of medical journals can go. I found a carton of farewell gifts to my kids from their school days. Since they have never looked at them on subsequents trips home, do they actually hold any sentimental value?
We have decided to let go of 10 years worth of Reader's Digest. But to the old newspaper guy? That is difficult. To some soul who will treasure them seems ideal but a vain hope.