I had a job interview early in the summer, during which I was asked why I stayed in a media backwater like Fort Wayne so long. I have two answers to this question, one long and one short. I decided to offer the short:
“Because I hate moving.”
I don’t know how it weighed in the decision — I didn’t get the job, but neither did anyone else, I’m told — but it felt far truer than the long version. I’m by no means a pack rat; the throwing-out part of moving feels very good. But you can’t throw out everything, and the older I get, the more I have to keep.
For instance: I found a cache of letters Saturday morning, mildewy and dusty, but irreplaceable, letters from friends to addresses I haven’t occupied since 1977. There was an apology letter from an old boyfriend, dead more than 25 years. There were old copies of my college newspaper, including the last one of the year, with the staff photo that took up half the page. (It features airbrushing that looked as though it was applied with a fire hose; if some stringer or other hanger-on tried to sneak into the staff picture, they were outta there.) There was a puzzling business card — I couldn’t place the name — and then I remembered the nice-but-no-chemistry accountant who took me out on two movie dates once upon a time long, long ago. We saw “Agnes of God” and ate dinner at Casa D’Angelo. I looked at the card again; his office was, I realize, about three blocks from my new house in Grosse Pointe Woods.
Small world. I wonder if he’s still there.
I threw out some of it, kept most. Some things you just can’t leave behind. So we tote one more box. So it goes.
Now I have to get back to it, and a thousand other things. To keep you occupied:
A fine obit of Marjorie Williams, whose column I discovered just before she went on extended medical leave. A great loss, a great person.
Ashley Morris slaps his HBO bitch up, over “The Wire,” of course. I’ve been meaning to plug Ash’s blog for a while; thanks for reminding me.
Back to the mangle for me.