Pack ’em, move ’em out

While Bob continues to march with military precision through the packing regime, Fred and I alternately take orders and abandon the process to find less chaotic and angst-ridden (urban) pastures.  I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time in the past 10 days eating eggplant parmigiana; Fred appears to have spent a chunk of change on t-shirts announcing the “East Bay.”  (My favorite is a baseball-style one depicting the loading cranes at the Port of Oakland).

While Bob packs–and catalogs–on.  He has now produced a 56-page binder detailing the materiality of our lives (minus the 5 or 6 dozen books I’ve acquired while living in Halifax, plus my winter clothes, which are also there). It is impressively, frighteningly complete while remaining pithy. I am relieved to see that individual t-shirts are not described, while a few books are categorized as “very old, including Schiller.”

In an echo of the autumn leave-taking, I had dinner with Heidi.  The extra bookend thrown into that was the bread baker where we dined–LoCoco’s on Shattuck–was an ELL student of hers years ago, whom I met when the lbirary hosted the annual ELL poetry reading.

That was then.  Now seems to be an artillery of boxes and packing tape.


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