The weather was picture-perfect, the diploma was secured, and we spent the day basking in the glow of our son's achievement. It was a day for the ages.
The next afternoon, I was at the house my son and five other college students rented. My mission: to help pack up and clean out. I decided to work on the kitchen. I gathered up plates and glasses, pots and pans, many of them slightly sticky to the touch, and realized all would need a bath after they arrived at our house. I enjoyed a happy reunion with several of my travel mugs that had migrated. And I was pleased to learn that we had acquired a Keurig coffee maker and a toaster. Both would also need to be cleaned.
Then I moved on to the foodstuffs.
First, I disposed of anything that had been opened. A few boxes of cereal. A bag of flour with a plastic bag halfheartedly draped across the top. A little pasta.
Next, I tossed anything that had expired.
Finally, I sorted the boxes and bags and cans into two groups: things I was willing to take home and things I would donate to the hunger center at the local church. Falling into the latter category were the gigantic package of Ramen noodles, two boxes of macaroni and cheese, some Hamburger Helper and the like.
I peered cautiously into the refrigerator, and reminded my son that we would not be transporting the hamburger that had been aging ungracefully in the freezer. Also not making the journey was the 80-pack box of freezer pops and a 12-pack of light beer.
In the pantry I found bags. Hundreds of them. Plastic and paper and canvas. A lovely coaster with a peace sign on it. And some bean bags from a corn-hole set. As an added bonus, at the bottom of one of the bags I discovered packages of paper plates and plastic utensils.
I still don't know how long the green Skittle was stuck to the floor. Or why one of guys left a term paper behind the microwave. It will forever be a mystery why there was half a jug of dishwasher pellets under the sink in a house that has no dishwasher. And we may never figure out how and why that pop tart landed on the top shelf, in the back, so forlorn. It could tell no tales and obviously didn't make the trip.
The next day, the rest of the house was packed and ready to move. Thanks to a good friend of our son's, a truck was made available and the contents schlepped in two trips. There were casualties. The bed didn't come home. It's an old mattress and box spring set, and no one had the stomach for a third trip.
Let me say, I am grateful, as was the landlord, that the house was left in reasonably good condition -- certainly far, far better shape compared to the previous tenants. I was also pleased to hear that the police didn't find it necessary -- even once -- to visit the place. But I could feel my son's sadness in saying goodbye to his first non-dorm home-away-from-home. Living with us again will certainly be less expensive for him, but also a little like moving backward in time.
But it's awfully nice having him around until he flies the coop.
I give him six months.
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