I have lost Jack.
And two photo albums.
No doubt more things are missing. For example, just yesterday, I offered to make some Christmas treats for the Cobalt Library fundraiser in December. I found my favourite steamed pudding recipe and made a list of ingredients to buy. Then I searched for the steaming equipment. The aluminum lidded container, I found. However, not the two ceramic bowls. I vaguely recall that I decided not to pack them for our move north. I hadn’t made pudding for several years, so the bowls were better off in someone else’s kitchen. I donated them to Goodwill. At least, let’s assume that’s what I did. Obviously, I had no real attachment to those items. More to my point – no regrets for their loss.
I cannot say the same about Jack and the photo albums.
It’s just so much spilt milk, right?
Well, no, actually.
Jack Horner and Miss Muffet are (or were) a pair of figurines that I inherited from my mother. A year after the move, I finally got around to unpacking the box of less essential items, like the souvenirs and knickknacks. Jack was missing.
There’s a mistake in that last sentence. Jack and Miss, and all the other items in that box are essential. Not in a “life or death” kind of way, no. But they represent important people, events, and feelings. To you? Nope. But to me, most assuredly.
What happened to Jack? How is it that he didn’t survive the trip? I remember wrapping and packing them individually and placing them, together, in the same box. But I also know that hubby came after me and re-packed some of the boxes.
What happened to the picture albums? I realized that they were missing this spring when I started to write a post titled Gardens I Have Dug. I planned to share pictures of the perennial borders and rose bowers and herb beds. But the two books from the years when I was, ahem, obsessed with gardening, were missing.
I know that I packed them. And that Reiner re-packed these boxes, too.
I know that I un-packed them. I think. Didn’t I? I’m fairly certain that I did. I can visualize the books in this house. I think. I dunno, this is what drives me nuts. This was during the days of settling in after the move. Cardboard cartons and tissue and bubble wrap littered the place. At day’s end, we’d clear the mess so we could start the next day’s mess from a state of relative tidiness.
I can barely summon the courage to type these words: did the books get tossed with the trash?
I’ve looked high and low. I’ve looked in every cupboard, closet, and cubby. Twice. More than twice – dozens of times. I’ve looked in crazy places, like the medicine chest in the downstairs bathroom – a room we seldom use. Or in the plastic totes filled with rubber boots or fishing gear. If this sort of activity doesn’t qualify as magical thinking, I don’t know what does. But it does qualify as the act of a desperate individual who deeply regrets losing something important.
This is also hard to admit: when I am in a particularly uncharitable frame of mind, I descend to depths where I suspect my hubby of jealously removing traces of my past lives with ex-husbands. Which is absurd. My suspicions are based on absolutely nothing other than wanting to find an explanation.
So, no. This is not just so much spilt milk.
Sure, what’s done is done. Of course, in the grand scheme of things, not a big deal. Not by a long shot. Besides, I don’t think of the loss, most days. But it has been on my mind since the Cherished Blogfest was announced. Since I have already written about my cherished possessions, I’ve been wondering how to participate. I guess I’ve found a way.
Categories: In Other News