In early December, I moved roughly halfway across the country. I had to pare down my belongings, because I was moving from a one-bedroom apartment to a furnished room in someone else’s home, and I was planning to move in a cargo van.
Well, the kitchen had tools, but there were a lot more of my own that I needed (or just plain wanted), so every now and then I’d have to wander into the garage and dig through a kitchen box for something. I’m sure you can imagine my dismay the first time I didn’t find what I was looking for.
After having had to do this several times, I decided to use the copious amounts of empty space (mostly high up, alas) in the kitchen to unpack my kitchen items that weren’t dishes. After unpacking every box labeled or known (giant plastic containers) to be a kitchen box, and noting what is in every box that is left (i.e., that’s my photographs, that’s my hurricane lamps and stained glass), I finally had to face the truth.
Those silicone loaf pans I went looking for? Nowhere to be found. Worse yet? My beloved Calphalon Everyday pan is missing as well. Finally, and worst yet, the cast iron skillet my mother gave me many years ago is also missing. God only knows what else might have been in that box, and it probably ended up in the pile of boxes to go to Goodwill.
The loaf pans are totally replaceable. The everyday pan might be hard to replace at a good price, since I don’t shop Amazon anymore. I could, of course, get another cast iron skillet, but it won’t be the one my mom gave me. Will I ever figure out what else might have been in that box? Probably, or maybe I’ll never miss it. But I miss this stuff.
Moving sucks. What have you lost in a move that you really hated losing?
I made two trips to move into my first dorm room. The first was with my parents, where we took most of the big stuff, and the second was alone where I took mostly smaller stuff. I was about an hour and fifty minutes into the two hour drive, when I saw about 100 papers fly out of the bed of my truck. They were all the letters I’d ever gotten from girls when I was in high school. I didn’t stop to try and pick any of them up, though, I figured it was a sign that a new chapter in my life was starting, smiled, and kept driving.
The only move where I’m sure I lost something was actually a professional move. I wasn’t as diligent as I should have been keeping track of the boxes as they were unloaded. The only thing I know for sure was in the box was my recipe cards. There were copies of recipes from my childhood, some that my mother no longer had. Plus there were a bunch of cards I’d gotten as gifts. All lost.
I lost a box of books in the mail, when I sent them from California to Kansas as I was changing stations in the military. I keep hoping that the box is sitting somewhere, shoved behind something big, and will one day be found. Then there will be one of those “It took forty years to arrive” articles in the paper, that you see from time to time.
When I moved from my father’s house to my first married house, I lost my wedding veil. It was the only thing from my wedding (we eloped to Bullhead City, AZ right across the bridge from Laughlin) that was mine. The dress was borrowed. I made it all by m’self, and it was freakin’ gorgeous. I still lament that loss.
One thing I loved about the military is the movers swooped in, you fed them some pizza and beer, and they swooped out and all your shit showed up at your new house. Some of it broken, but oh well.
We’re in the middle of a move now and it’s a nightmare. I don’t know where anything is and I’m living on boxes.
I wonder how common losing a box of books that were important to you will be?
In my move from my second college apartment, known as “The Death Trap”, to my third college apartment, I lost a box of books. The worst part was that it was the box that contained three out of the four books my parents had gone out of their way to get autographed for me, and the only one where the authors had taken the time to personalize it for me. It also had favorite books. It’s just another reason to hate that vile place.
My mom had moved to an assisted living facility, which required a great deal of sorting and pitching, but one thing Mom insisted taking were several hefty photo albums. (At some point, Mom and Dad finally moved from slides to prints.) One of the albums was more of a scrapbook, full of all the anniversary cards and letters they’d received for their 50th wedding anniversary.
Then, a few months before she died, she went through a couple of serious illnesses that necessitated moving her into the skilled nursing part of the facility. She moved from apartment to skilled nursing and back at least twice. Those photo albums HAD to go with her, each time time she moved.
After she died, we were cleaning out her apartment, and I realized the albums were nowhere to be found. I checked with the skilled nursing staff, and they, understandably, had no idea. I talked to the administrative staff of the facility, and they were very sympathetic, but several weeks of follow-up calls turned up nothing.
I’ve often thought who, in an old folks’ home, would come across some “homeless” photo albums or scrapbooks and not make an effort to reunite them with their owner? They have absolutely NO value except to the owner. I am really sorry those have been lost to us kids.
I was convinced for the last six months that I’d managed to lose my very favourite pair of kicks during my last move. These were the best shoes ever… they’ve taken me through countless parties, trekking all over the Iberian peninsula, and four separate moves. I was heartbroken. Finally, a few weeks ago, I gave in and decided to buy a replacement pair that was somewhat passable.
Then, the other day I went to grab a gift bag for a housewarming gift, and there were my shoes… crammed into the bottom of my Giant Gift Bag Full Of Gift Bags. Damned if I know how they ended up there. I suspect the Sneaker Gnomes had something to do with it, because it sure as hell wasn’t me.
Moral of the story - you’ll find your cookware, but probably not until you’ve given up and bought brand-new pans.
That’s terrible, freckafree! What a devastating loss.
Mahna Mahna, I hope you’re right. I don’t mind replacing the loaf pans and Everyday pan (thanks, MikeG!) when I’m employed again, but it’s really depressing to have lost that skillet. I remember being in charge of cleaning it as a kid. I remember fighting with my ex-boyfriend about it in college. I remember it being one of the few things I enjoyed cooking with when growing up (I didn’t like cooking so much, but I loved that skillet). It was one of two or three kitchen things my parents gave me when I moved out that I truly loved to have. Sure, I can get another cast iron skillet fairly easily, but it won’t be my mom’s skillet.
And the books my parents gave me, save one, are completely lost. Five or more moves ago.
For a year straight, I had a pair of windowpane-stitch corduroy pants, about two sizes too small, that I bought at the thrift store because of how incredibly awesome they were. I vowed to myself that I would, someday, fit into them. It became my ever-encompassing goal. Christmas of last year, I finally succeeded! I had dropped about 20lbs and they were my favorite pants in the world because, every time I wore them, I thought of how proud I was in what I had managed to accomplish.
This past fall, I moved apartments. My beautiful corduroys were the sole victim of the move. Not to mention that I gained some depression weight after I lost my job so I wouldn’t have been able to wear them this year anyway… but I miss them more for what they represented to me.
Not to mention that I gained some depression weight after I lost my job so I wouldn’t have been able to wear them this year anyway… but I miss them more for what they represented to me.