My Indian Name is "Runs With Stuff"

Well, we are into day 3 of the massive activity associated with THE MOVE. Yesterday commenced with a required cleaning of all our outside Stuff--due to this pesky critter in Virginia called a gypsy moth. Evidently, if we transport the gypsy moth to the PNW via our Stuff, we may take out all the national parks along the way. This little caterpillar is known for waking up hungry and eating everything in sight. There are days I can relate. So, we washed our Stuff. We took out the attic Stuff (movers won't take things out of attics and crawl spaces, FYI). We put away the homeowners stuff back up into the attic so it doesn't get moved. The piles of Stuff are slightly more organized. Helga has been washed and defrosted. The beer Stuff has been cleaned and put where it can be lovingly packed. The computer Stuff is being backed up somewhere in cyberspace.

Which leads me to my musings on Stuff. I have a lot of Stuff. My friends can attest to my whining on the desire to be more organized, that all my Stuff has it's special place and that maybe people will visit my home and think I've got my Stuff together. And while all that is true--I've even told the Sailor that THIS MOVE, THE STUFF WILL BE ORGANIZED, I still cannot seem to get rid of my Stuff.

You see, as a family on the move, Stuff starts to get important, even if it is just Stuff. My Stuff has a lot of memories built into that even though I do not necessarily enjoy the moving of the Stuff, I am loathe to give the Stuff away, or throw it away. I have an antique Turkish plate that I bargained for three hours in Istanbul that represents everything I love about our trip to Turkey and the memories we had there; I have paintings I have picked up in squares by starving artists throughout Europe; I have 6 binders of art from Mr. Hawking; I have pictures; I have family Bibles and Prayer Books; I have silver and china; I have furniture from my grandparents; we have Star Wars toys from the Sailor's childhood and goodness knows how much Clemson Stuff. And let us not forget the books. We have boxes and boxes of books (Hey! Reading is good for you, you know!). I remember sitting down with another military wife several years ago talking about moves and how her mom (she was a military brat too) taught her about the packing of wedding pictures and silverware and how you would transport that yourself in the car from home to home and how this Stuff made us feel linked to the generations of women who have carried there stuff across America, in a covered wagons to the Old West, or sewn into the hem of their gowns during wars and Depression and we felt how our Stuff made us a part of women in history.

And so, my Stuff makes me feel like I am part of something bigger and this Stuff has become my memories. And while I would like to think that if something cataclysmic happened to my Stuff, I would remember it is just Stuff, I cannot seem to make myself cull the Stuff just because I move. Rather each time we do move, it actually gives me the opportunity to look, and feel and touch my Stuff and wander down memory lane, whereas if I did not move and look through my Stuff, it may just sit on a shelf, or on a wall, or in a drawer, just being Stuff and not the memories of a life on the move.