Moving reminds me of those small liquid-filled glass globes with heartwarming scenes. Shake them up and their tranquility is agitated as thousands of specks arise from nowhere.
I have been in the throes the last several weeks of disturbing the tranquility of my abode as I have removed pictures from the walls, mementoes from shelves, and books from cases. All have lodged immobile in their respective spots for four years. And each is attached to a memory. Especially the books.
I've had a long-standing habit of hiding things in books, not concealing them from others, but placing them there to be rediscovered at a later date. These are things that have touched my soul deeply - letters, especially letters, notes, cards, and even magazine and newspaper articles. These treasures have evoked a variety of feelings in me - tears, laughter, goose flesh, inspiration. They are not mere scraps of paper. They are prizes squirreled away to be relished again. With the passing of time they acquire a patina of wistfulness. Even the happy ones.
There was a priceless letter from my daughter Tink thanking me for being her father, a love note from Sweetie, a scrap of paper from a granddaughter who has just graduated high school and who scribbled when she was 5, "I love you." There were notes from pals and confidants, a New Yorker article by Flannery O'Connor and a sealed envelope stamped "Return to Sender."
It was a letter I had sent to the dearest of friends. The family loved him. In one of life's earlier incarnations when I was a literary agent, he was our office's corresponding agent in London. We stayed with him on many visits as he did with us here in America.
One of my fondest memories was to see him and Sweetie hoisting their champagne glasses in an endless toast while the pageantry of Charles' and Diana's wedding was televised as it proceeded a block away from his house. By four in the afternoon the two of them were so pleasantly crocked they didn't know what they were talking about. Being a teetotaler, I remembered it all and even kept notes. It was as hilarious as it was wonderful.
When I mailed the letter I rediscovered hidden in a book, I knew "His Eminence" (I gave him that nickname which stuck and all his clients and all the clients of our office addressed him thus) had passed away six months earlier. Years before on impulse I had started something which had evolved into tradition. During the first week of April I would send a letter that contained only a single line from Robert Browning, "O to be in England now that April's there."
It continued for years. In 1984, my unread letter was returned signaling an era's end.
Other lost treasures emerge from cubbyholes - photographs of youthful-looking people who have ripened to senior citizens, some for whom the passing parade had ended; pictures of children who now have children of their own; menus from memorable meals in foreign lands; plaques for minor accomplishments; wedding invitations; birth announcements; and even ticket stubs from an assortment of women named "Thais," "Norma," "Tosca," "Turandot" and "Lucia Di Lammermoor."
All of these are particles from the same adventure. Certainly not as thrilling as a National Geographic special, but far less vicarious and far more personal.
Moving is a riveting event. It certainly stirs up memories and no matter how joyous the anticipation, adjustments are demanded. But when I contemplate the millions of people on this planet who not only don't move voluntarily but are brutally uprooted, I realize how fortunate I am to make this choice. I'm going home. That's where I belong.

© 2002 The Ojai Valley News

Return to editorial search

Back to the news