Nearly Time To Move On

For the last couple of weeks I have been emptying my three closets in preparation for an upcoming move from Florida to another state. It is not a pleasant experience to realize that the biggest portion of my possessions are nothing more than mere baubles. The various familiar objects, commonly characterized as 'one-man's-treasure' are indeed another man's junk.

One closet contains mostly clothing, much packed in boxes but some on hangers, hanging in open view though not worn for years, lonesome reminders of bygone days when this raiment's purpose was not to hide but to enhance a body that then was hard and large and meaningful with its properly balanced and socially-acceptable distribution of muscle and fat. No longer of any use. The clothing, I mean. Not even suitable for the Salvation Army resale shops.

Another closet yields a trove of electronics parts: circuit boards, loudspeakers, microphones, plugs & receptacles & connectors & non-compartmented and uncategorized components. At least a thousand of them. Or so it seems.

And electronics books and manuals. And floppy-discs and software and blank CDs. And old radios, one with a pair of huge detached speakers and a built-in 8-track player with several 8-track cartridges.

Also four old computers, one that still works in its ancient Windows 98 mode and one that works most of the time, when it feels like booting up. Two that are dead but would work fine if only a person would take the time to do a component-level repair. And two old CB radios, one with 23 channels and another one so old that it is tunable through a vast spectrum of long-forgotten frequencies.

A third closet, supposedly a linen closet that contains nine towels, two wash cloths, a pile of old rags, and hundreds of boxed-up small hand-tools.

The guest bedroom which is a combination computer-room and Ham Shack, with its HP Pavilion PC with a 21 inch monitor and HP LaserJet 1000 printer and DeskJet 895C printer and 2 HP flat-bed scanners.

Two working transceivers, 2-meters & 10-meters. Scattered remnants of old rigs. My framed FCC issued Amateur Radio license, KA9CWJ. Probably 50 assorted connecting cables and page-packaged displays of many, many QSL cards received from Hams from all over the world with whom I've conversed in both words and via Morse Code throughout the years.

And my framed but fading Associate in Engineering Electronics degree from (now defunct) Valparaiso Technical Institute.

The more than 100 hard-bound and that same number of soft-cover novels and texts on my living-room's large wooden book-shelf are of little intrinsic value, most having been purchased at yard sales, discount stores, or on eBay for a fraction of their displayed retail price. A few are quite old, but not collectibles by any means. All have been read and therefore are drained of their novelty, useless except as nostalgic reminders of what was once perused, absorbed, and is now mostly forgotten.

Almost all of this is to be sold, given away, or discarded at the curb for rubbish pickup. Another phase of my life is ending.

I am taking no pictures of any of it.

Why?

None is necessary.

Why?

I have read that in his later years Pablo Picasso was not allowed to roam an art gallery unattended, for he had previously been discovered in the act of trying to improve on one of his old masterpieces.

. . . 'nuff said?