The two big questions

Now that word of my decision to sell my house is leaking out, there are two questions that I am almost inevitably asked.

"Are you going to have a house-warming party in your new apartment?"

"What does Cassie think about the impending move?"

I'm not planning to throw a big housewarming party. I don't do big parties. I'm neither fond of going to big parties nor of hosting big gatherings.

I plan to have friends over -- in small groups -- to see my new place. It'll take a while to get everything organized, but they will be invited.

One thing I have to do is find a new dining-room table. The one I have now is too big and ungainly for the new space. It's been in the family for close to six decades, and it's a beautiful piece of furniture. I hope I can pass it on to a relative or a good friend. It has served the Dales well for two generations, but it's time for it, too, to find a new home of its own.

And to the extent that a house-warming party is one to which those invited bring gifts to "warm up" the new space, no, thank you. I'm downsizing, not upsizing. I have more stuff than I want or need already.

(Anybody need a staple gun? Mine has been sitting in a cigar box in the basement for at least 20 years. I haven't used it since my black lab ran away from home in 1996 and I tacked up notices on the trees in the neighborhood. I found my dog and haven't used the staple gun since. Or how about a perfectly serviceable suitcase? I have four, and three of them are in the giveaway pile in the guest bedroom. Each brings back warm memories of trips to Europe. Also up for grabs is a Zippo lighter that belonged to my late sister. It has a Washington Redskins logo on it. What with the fuss about the Redskins name, that might soon be a collector's item. Maybe I should hang on to it.)

As for questions #2, I haven't told Cassie about the move yet, although I suspect she thinks that something is afoot. (Do cats think? Cassie doesn't appear to ponder much beyond her next meal and the availability of a warm lap. Oh, and a good place to take a nap.)

She's taken some interest in the giveaway pile, especially since it's encroaching on her favorite space to snooze.

She'll like the apartment. It's on the ninth floor, and that will give her new windowsills to sit on and the opportunity to view the world from a perspective she's never experienced before.

Cassie will be just fine. Her food dish, water dish, litter box and cat toys -- especially the red felt mouse she positively venerates -- will be there when she arrives. She'll no doubt spend a week or so exploring every fresh nook and cranny. I'll tell her to look at the move as an exciting adventure. She might not pay attention, but she is, truth be told, along for the ride whether she approves or not.

She won't worry long, if at all. She's easily distracted, wherever she might be and whatever her mood. All I have to do is toss a crumpled-up sticky note.

Or her red felt mouse.

She'll throw herself into play mode and forget all her cares.

Would that life could be so simple for the rest of us.

Sorting ... sort of

This picture was taken by my mother on September 11, 1943, my first birthday.

Sorting. Deciding. Eliminating.

And, best of all, discovering.

As I get ready for the big downsize from a house to an apartment, the biggest chore is choosing what to take with me, what to give away (or sell), and what to toss in the trash.

But there are also discoveries.

I found something Sunday that I had never seen before: A letter to me from my father. It was tucked away in a box of papers and photographs I had found in a closet when I was cleaning out my mother's house, getting it ready for sale in 2006, the year before she died.

The letter from my father was dated July 18, 1943. It was addressed to Master Donnie Dale.

I was less than a year old.

He probably wrote it either on board a ship headed for the South Pacific or in New Zealand where the Seabees staged for their part in the bloody but ultimately successful effort to take the strategically placed Solomon Islands away from the Japanese.

The short letter, written in ink and in my father's clear cursive style, was in response to a letter my mother had sent him that purportedly was from me. Of course she had written it; I was too young to talk much, let alone write a letter.

It's difficult to describe how I felt when I found the long-forgotten letter. I was touched by how sweet it was. I imagined the turmoil he was going through so far from home on the eve of a dangerous campaign. I was so very glad I had found it. And I was astonished that it had survived for six decades.

Here, for the record, is what he had to say:

Darling little fellow,

Daddy got your letter and read it several times. Between the lines I read that you love me. And Daddy loves you too, you and your Mamma. So you be a good little boy for me and look after your mother until I get back, for you are the only man in the family there at home now. And you kiss Mamma good morning for me every morning.

Daddy

P.S. Daddy loves you both.

Next: another closet

My, how the time does fly.

Thirty-three years ago, I moved into my house.

In another couple of weeks, I'll be moving out.

When I first contemplated it, the task of moving from a house and into an apartment was daunting. But now that I've done all of the research -- into real estate agents, moving companies, new apartments -- it seems less complicated.

But it's still going to be a tough row to hoe.

I interviewed three real estate agents. I looked at a half-dozen apartments. I talked to moving companies.

The solution appears to be throwing money at the problem. But selling the house will more than cover that -- and probably cover me for as long as I am on the right side of the grass.

I'll also save money. No more yardman. No more housekeeper. No more property taxes. And the list goes on.

They key to the process is to take it one step at a time. Today, I'll do this. Tomorrow, I'll do that. As the ancient Chinese writer Laozi said, "A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step."

The first step is weeding out the junk. Over the past three decades, I have accumulated so much stuff. I've adopted a flexible guideline: If I haven't used it, read it, or needed it for five years, out it goes.

Family and close friends will have first dibs on books, tchotkes, unneeded furniture, etc. The next step will be to call Diversity Thrift.

Anybody need a 1950s wicker picnic basket, complete with checkered tablecloth, early-plastic plates and cups, and an unopened package of paper napkins? There are even slots in the plastic plates to hold the plastic cups. Sixty years ago, the family often used that picnic basket. It's been all over our neck of Virginia, from Natural Bridge to Yorktown. I've had it since my mother died and have never used it.

I spent the past weekend cleaning out two closets and the attic. I bought a 10-pack of yard-waste bags for the throwaway stuff. I used them all, as you can see in the picture above. The trash men hauled it all away this morning.

I have another closet and a pantry to handle next.

One step at a time.

There are lots of small things I'll move myself. If I weren't taking a fitness class five mornings per week, I'd never have the energy to do this.

Moving day is about three weeks away.

I suppose I'd better buy some more big plastic bags.