Divorce vs. Murder

A recent lifestyle change led my sainted wife and me to pack our house and move.  No, the law wasn’t closing in on us rather this move was talked about for years but never scheduled.  Now was the time.

 

 

We had been in this particular abode for over a score.  For those of you who are not fans of The Gettysburg Address, a score is twenty years.
 

Our house is modest with two bedrooms and two baths.  The balance consists of a small living room, dining room, galley kitchen, and semi-finished basement.  I also built a workshop that doubled as a storage shed.
 

Packing actually began five years ago when a bored neighbor visited my sainted wife with a bottle of wine.  During this episode they decided to begin the packing.  Removing Waterford crystal from the china hutch, they carefully wrapped each stem with eight sheets of newspaper, putting four glasses in each box.
 

If I recall correctly, we own roughly twenty stems which quickly filled five boxes, along with various other collected pieces of glass and china and a variety of just junk.  Stuff I didn’t even know we had was pulled from that hutch, along with an assortment of linen napkins and plates, saucers, and other things we never use in lieu of paper plates.
 

Soon we had 18 boxes of newspaper plus a few delicate items inside, stacked about the living room.  Apparently the wine supply had been exhausted and the packing party was done.
 

Fast forward to a month ago and 37 trips to the store to buy more boxes and tape when space rapidly began dwindling from the stacks of cardboard and miscellany that seemed to appear from nowhere.  I even asked if we were storing stuff for neighbors and friends as much of this stuff was unrecognizable by me.
 

It wasn’t long before Smokey the Cat was wondering what was going on.  He corralled his toys to a safe spot in a small, clear corner to wait for the results.
 

Results, at this point, could only go two ways – divorce or murder.  I was personally leaning toward murder, but I couldn’t locate my shovel for the shallow grave.
 

Eventually, a maze-like creation of towering containers formed a pathway to the bathroom, front door, and fridge.
 

The realization we had too much stuff wasn’t as surprising as the fact that I was, unbeknownst to anyone, a master packer – the consummate stasher of goods – and should have a job lading transoceanic ships.
 

Nonetheless, the movers were both astonished and amazed at the amount of goods that actually fit into our tiny home.
 

All-in-all, the move was successful to the point of having all our goods safely arrive among the 305 boxes.
 

Now I need to start opening them to find Smokey who is likely somewhere therein with his toys.