To my surprise, I recently discovered I own more than one pair of pants. I was getting ready to move from Washington, D.C., to Vancouver, and the packing people asked: “Waddya wanna do with yer clothes?”
“What clothes?” I asked.
“In yer closet here. Ya want ’em folded or hung?”
“I, um … well …,” I said, as intelligently as possible.
The fact is, I hadn’t been in there in a while, and I’d kind of forgotten about them. I looked at them in some embarrassment; they had a lot of dust on them. I discovered I have two old suits, two older sport jackets, and half a dozen other pairs of pants. I even have three more pairs of shoes. My “new” sneakers, which I seem to wear all day these days, are, to my astonishment (and sudden shame!), 10 years old. At least! Where does the time go?
I have some old pajamas that I never wear to bed. I wear them around the house when I’m washing the pants.
“Well, um, I guess … hung, probably.”
“Those boxes are $30 each. Ya sure?”
“Yes! Sure! Um … I guess.”
Up until then, I liked being retired. But moving is, to me, hell on earth. And I had thought — when I’d thought about it, which wasn’t much — that I’d probably die in situ. I somehow thought my daughter would eventually return to her roots, and bring her family back east. I didn’t realize she had such a full and entrenched life in the West. So, when the dust — and my nerves — settled, I found myself snug and happy in a lovely little house in the great Pacific Northwest, wondering what in God’s name I’m ever going to do with all these clothes.
