Susie and I went to a morning workshop at church yesterday, and, after it ended, I met our new landlord in the parking lot. There was a very brief ceremony–I reached into my wallet and pulled out a money order for the February rent, and he handed me two keys, freshly cut at Ace Hardware. Steph, Susie, and I are now–however briefly–legally living in two places, a sign of look-at-me American affluence. As she describes in her blog, we will be making the actual move to our new place in Clintonville on Friday the 13th, so I can take advantage of a four-day weekend. (I’m taking leave on the 13th, and the 16th is Presidents’ Day weekend.) We’ve begun packing–friends have come to the house with carloads of boxes of various sizes and shapes. I try to bring home what I can from work, but half of the boxes are marked "State Property" and can’t leave the building, and there are limits to how many I can take on the bus. I was at Family Dollar yesterday, in a futile attempt to buy rock salt, and was so disappointed about their not having any that I forgot to ask for boxes.
I don’t anticipate my office being that hard to pack up. As you may remember from the pictures I posted in here last summer, most of my books are in milk-crate bookshelves, so all I have to do is carry them. My bookcases are plastic and can come apart. The giant desk, I am leaving behind. Moving it to the office in the first place nearly resulted in slipped disks and hernias–it was kind of like a ship in a bottle. Steph is giving me her desk and file cabinet. I am both dreading and looking forward to emptying the drawers. (Last year, I acquired the habit of idly pitching empty pill bottles into one drawer as I finished them. The casual observer glancing at the drawer would think I was a combination of Elvis and Robert Downey, Jr.) I once had a typical bohemian makeshift desk–an old door that I put across two sawhorses, but when I got into my full Pete Townshend typing mode, the door bounced as much as a diving board.
My new office will be in the basement, so I’m literally turning into an underground writer. The less external stimuli I have, the more productive I think I can be. There are windows at eye level, but I seem to remember they’re pretty grimy, so I won’t be as prone to daydream.
Steph is at church, knitting afghans for Appalachian families. Susie and I are at the Whetstone Library–a friend of ours is taking her to the Ohio State women’s basketball game at the Schottenstein Arena (tipoff time is at 4).
Any of my loyal readership in the Columbus area willing to lend a hand with the use of a pickup truck to help move boxes to the new place? That’ll be less we’d have to pay the professional movers.