Country Matters, or All These Charms Are Fled

After years of attempting to move from a dilapidated house in the city to a fairly-well-kept up place in a neighboring village, I finally succeeded. The conclusion of my long-standing goal was less satisfactory than one might imagine.

Years ago, there were several businesses I patronized out here: the big grocery, the fabric store, the record store. All are gone, though a big new grocery is to be built here within a couple of years. Presumably, this very large grocery will attract other businesses, and will likely create a demand for more frequent buses (currently there are two bus routes that go past here; one every half hour in both directions, and the other bus route is more variable and only comes by here once in a while).


I used to walk here from the city quite a bit — I was good at taking very long walks. Naturally the ageing process has interfered and I am no longer fond of the very long walks.Ironically, a new library and grocery are being built in my old area. Each will be usable this year.

I realized even before I moved, that the village was no longer the place I wanted to live, but no other option presented itself. Possibly I didn’t try hard enough to find suitable arrangements in the city.

I already know that I don’t want to live here long-term. The main reason I moved here was that the house was no longer livable and this place was available. Now that the danger of the roof collapsing on my head, or any similar disaster, is no longer a probability, I can focus on things I want to do.

I miss watching the cars go by on the drive at night (and wondering where those people could be going). I miss not having a nearby parkway –the parks out here are generally small and a bit of a hike from where I live. Luckily, I am sure that I will be able to rectify my error and I will soon be repatriated.




















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The House That Dripped Crud, or What Hoarders Will


I grew up in a house that was well-stocked with the possessions of dead relatives. If  I needed some item for a homework assignment or any other purpose, it could usually be found around the house, no matter how obscure or useless the thing was.

This warehousing of dead-peoples’ things seemed to me not only a good idea, but normal. As the years passed, it became apparent that the treasure-trove was actaully more of an encumbrance. My mother had vaguely planned on moving to a smaller house, when it was just the two of us, after the other family members had aged out of the house in one way or another. While Mom was still driving, she would point out cute little houses (probably two-bedroom, one-bath), and say that we could never fit all of our stuff into such a little house.

There was some kind of unspoken rule about not being able to just throw away the possessions of the dear-departed relations, because an item belonged to this person or that person, even though the person mentioned had shuffled off his mortal coil decades earlier and had no way of using any of his possessions.

My father shared this attitude to the extent that his domain, the garage, was largely unusable and impassable due to the boxes of rusty tools and whatnot which had belonged to not only he, but his ancestors. I had tried to clean up the garage in recent years (decades after his departure), rounding up like-items of yore, as well as more recent acquisitions which must have been bought by my brother (jugs of antifreeze and a fleet of lawn sprinklers).

The storage system in the garage consisted of high shelves made of scrap-wood. There were plenty of things in the rafters, as well.

In the house, the storage system was simply boxes on shelves in every closet, also on the floors of those closets, also boxes on shelves outside the closets, in stacks in front of those shelves, boxes in every available corner, etc.

The idea of going through the boxes and throwing things away seems to have been foreign, yet both my parents were capable of selling things for which they no longer had any use.

At some point, Mom’s health problems consumed her and she no longer brought up the subject of moving, nor could she be talked into fixing up the house so that we would be able to use the bathrooms normally, as the toilets had to be flushed with buckets and the sinks had problems, and ugh, forget about the bathtubs.

After Mom died, I attempted to clean the house, and managed to throw out a lot of things. The most gruesome finds were chocolate coins from 1959, in the basement, and in Mom’s room, a box full or newspapers and matchbooks!

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Seen in Robbinsdale

A pig and a plaque!

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Painted box

This is a drawer from a long-gone desk.img_20170224_1712041

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pig planter

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Rooster planter


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Painted rocks


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