On Sunday evening, I decided to take an hour or so and clean out a cluttered corner of my foyer that I pretty much haven't touched since my mom died. I set boxes of our family Christmas ornaments aside to go through later, threw out some old wrapping paper and random receipts, and found a five-dollar bill.
I took some framed cross-stitch work my mom made years ago, maybe even before I was born, and dusted it and set it aside to box up to take to my next house. I hemmed and hawed over a couple of baskets, and eventually decided I didn't need to keep them.
Once I was finished with the clutter, I'd unearthed a beautiful old spindle-back bench — or settee, if you want to get fancy — that had been sitting in that room since the house was built back in the 1970s. It belonged to my grandmother, and it didn't have any manufacturing markings, so I couldn't be sure exactly how old it was or where she got it, but I knew one thing: I didn't need it.
Let me back up here and explain that I own and live on property that has been in my family for generations. My cousins and I jokingly called it the "Anderson Compound" as kids because we all grew up here. Some of us moved away for good. Some of us moved away and returned, as is the case with me. They're building data centers all around us now, and most of us have sold to those developers. My dad and I are the last ones here — we own two houses and several acres of land —but that will most likely change soon.
I don't know what our timeline for moving is, but I know that it could be a year from now, and I'd still not have enough time to go through everything. I've been decluttering here and there, but I've still got two houses and several storage buildings full of relics from the past — things that date back two, three, and four generations, all the way back to my great-great-grandparents, Henry and Sarah Barrow. I've got my mom's belongings (and she was a borderline hoarder, so there are a lot), my grandparents' stuff that was left behind after the rest of the family took what they wanted, my furniture and items from when I lived alone in a past life, and, somehow, the leftovers from my elderly neighbor's estate that my mom decided to acquire just before she died.
And that is why, on Sunday evening, I decided it was time to stop putting in half an effort and get serious about lightening our load. When my dad and I do walk away from here in the months to come, I'd like to do so with only about 10 to 20% of the objects we own.
So, that night, I dragged the bench out into the garage, wiped it down, and took some pictures of it just before dark. I put it on Facebook Marketplace for $100, thinking no one would want it or maybe I'd priced it too high, but I was flooded with inquiries almost immediately. The first serious buyer sent me the money and promised to pick it up early Tuesday morning. I told her I'd probably still be in bed, but the garage door would be open, and she was welcome to come get it whenever.
When I woke up this morning, I looked out the window and sure enough, the bench was gone. That empty spot in my garage hit me harder than I thought it would, though. It wasn't the bench. While it was pretty, it's not really my decorating style, and the next place I live won't be close by, so I want to have to move as little as possible. At the end of the day, it's just wood, and it sounds like the new owner will treasure it.
But the past and the future flashed before my eyes. It felt like a little part of my grandparents disappeared with that bench. While I'd been getting rid of things here and there, this was the first substantial item, and it felt like I was opening the floodgates, and now everything else will just start flowing out of the house — as if now that I've started, there's no stopping.
There is a heavy responsibility, a burden even, in being the last person in a long line of people who called this place home, knowing that you're the one left to decide what becomes of everything generations of your family built, kept, and left behind.
And then there is the future. I know that moving is the right thing. I've been trying to get out of this town for years, but I was stuck for the longest time due to my mother's health. Even if the data centers weren't going up all around us, I think my dad and I both need a change of scenery because these houses and this land hold a lot of sadness and longing for the people we've lost over the years.
But again, that responsibility falls on me now. I have to find the next place to live on my own, to manage the proceeds from the sale of everything those generations before me built. What if I make a wrong decision? If it were just me, I'd be okay with that. It would still be scary, but I'm the only one it would impact. However, my dad is in his seventies, and his health isn't the best right now. I don't want his golden years spent worrying about logistics. I just want him to have a comfortable place to enjoy what time he has left on this earth.
So, I sold a bench today. But it was more than wood. It was both a giant leap away from the past and the start of a big new beginning — and, perhaps, the greatest symbol of my current life in limbo.
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