NO HOARDING

Rather than go through carrying things downstairs, we are still upstairs going through boxes.   He admitted to his friends that he is a packrat.  Bin after box of the most amazing things like my parents big, metal scissors, or a package of my mother’s slightly worn and rusty needles with a moving company on the cover appears.  I must tell you that he isn’t making as many bad jokes today as he did yesterday.

Now that I am home and doing better, the get-well-cards have stopped arriving.  Darn.  I’ve become selfish and can admit that I really enjoyed each and every one of them.  I saved them all to a folder prosaically called cards. 

George is over there on the other side of the desk sorting things.  Every once in a while he passes something over the top of the monitors.  A folding traveling hairbrush, a picture of a Granddaughter as a paperweight, and an analog-Radio Shack TV of about 3 inches total.  Out went two bags of trash.  No more being a hoarder, he says loudly.

We are almost home free.

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• Himself:  The day is cold and cloudy.  I can see the edge of the wall of fog over G’s shoulder.
• Myself: Not as thoroughly anti hoarding as G.
• Reading:  Some of the mysteries BDMK sent my way.
• Photo:  “Star of India.”
• Gratitude’s:  For sill getting the house almost back together.