By Tom Robotham
Last spring, I wrote an essay called “Leaving the Treehouse”—a reflection on my realization that it was time to vacate the apartment I had occupied for 17 years. I called it the Treehouse because it was on the fourth floor of an old building in West Ghent, surrounded by Sweetgum trees and bathed in afternoon light.
I was fond of it, not only because of the lovely view and the serene privacy it offered, but because I had put my personal stamp on it, adorning the walls with various guitars and my father’s mandolin, photographs of my ancestors, shelves displaying vintage toys, record and CD cabinets, and, of course, bookshelves containing some 1,500 volumes. Hundreds more books lay stacked on the floors, and while the clutter could be frustrating at times (going in search of a particular title was a scavenger hunt, as often as not), the piles added a certain coziness to the space.
I might well have stayed there for the rest of my life, had I not come to terms with a few harsh realities. One was the fact that climbing four flights of stairs several times a day—while good exercise—would sooner or later become difficult. Moreover, the place needed a lot of work—plaster repairs, fresh paint, and appliance upgrades. Four months ago, in fact, my refrigerator died, and the management company—which had a good track record of handling maintenance requests—simply couldn’t remove the fridge or bring in a new one unless I cleared out the narrow the hallway, which was lined with, you guessed it, more bookshelves. I decided to settle for a mini-fridge, since I was planning to leave anyway.
And so, the search for a new place began.
After years of living with radiator heat that I couldn’t control, I had a hankering for an apartment with central heat and AC. The trouble was, every modern complex I toured had two drawbacks: the rents were exorbitant, and even those going for twice my current rate were considerably smaller than the Treehouse.
“Maybe it’s time to downsize,” several friends remarked, and I could see some wisdom in that. But the thought of getting rid of half my library and a whole lot of other stuff felt overwhelming. In addition to the emotional pain of letting go of cherished items, there was the daunting task of simply getting it done: boxing things up, hauling them down those four flights of stairs and doing something with them. Although, I hadn’t come close to finding a new place, I began the process of making regular trips to a local thrift store.
It didn’t seem to make a dent. On the contrary, I’d often wake up after having spent the previous day purging, and have the distinct impression that my piles of books, CDs, records and old papers of various sorts had reproduced overnight, like so many amoebas.
Meanwhile, the apartment hunt continued, and I soon ran into another problem: a red-hot market. At one point, I found a place that seemed adequate and decided to put down a deposit. As I was in line at the bank, however, waiting to get a cashier’s check, someone else snapped it up.
“You’re lucky you even saw it,” the leasing agent told me. “Most places are going sight unseen.”
Finally, after six months of searching, I found something that seemed damn near perfect: a first-floor unit with central heat and air, modern kitchen appliances, an in-unit washer-dryer combo, and even a gym and swimming pool in the complex. It was a big jump in rent, but a bargain compared with every other place I’d seen.
Once I’d secured it, though, I had to double down on my efforts to pack and purge by my agreed-upon move-out date. One friend, a guy named Morgan, was an enormous help. Not long ago, he opened Wands Books—a shop just off of Church Street—and he offered to come box up and haul away any books that I could part with. Under those circumstances, the task was a lot easier than it had seemed earlier. Not only was he doing all of the physical labor; he made me feel as if the books were going to a good home. I just couldn’t bear the idea of tossing perfectly good volumes in a dumpster. During one of his visits, I even gave him an old Royal manual typewriter that my dad had used to write two books.
“It’ll be a nice decoration in the store,” he said, “but I won’t sell it. If you ever want it back, it’s yours.”
The next phase was to transport what I could handle on my own to my new place—stuff I wasn’t going to leave in the care of a moving company: my stereo and records, my most valuable books and framed photos, and some irreplaceable memorabilia. Once I had the stereo hooked up and the records on some sleek new Kallax shelves that I’d picked up at IKEA, I began to feel some relief. Whenever I’ve moved over the years, hooking up my old receiver, turntable and speakers has always been the first thing I did. There’s something about putting on a record and filling a space with music for the first time that seems like a christening. Since my records were in no particular order, I pulled one at random, and it happened to be Bob Marley’s greatest hits. I was instantly comforted by the opening lyrics to “Three Little Birds”: Don’t worry about a thing, cause every little thing’s gonna be all right.”
Shortly afterwards, I hired a moving company to haul the stuff I couldn’t handle. Ten bookcases, more than two dozen boxes of books, and a few pieces of furniture. Most of the furniture, I told them, I was leaving behind. Unfortunately, they weren’t quite up to even this modest task. As it turned out, they didn’t bother to secure items in the truck and two pieces of furniture fell over and broke beyond repair. I had a sense that I’d made the wrong choice right off the bat when the lead guy was on his phone with his girlfriend the whole time, but by then it was too late.
Lessons learned: 1) America’s work ethic ain’t what it used to be, and 2) even under the best of circumstances, moving involves some degree of loss.
I had a much better experience with Hillco Disposal, a junk-removal company I hired to haul away most of my furniture—it was time for a fresh start—mounds of papers and most everything in my kitchen. The professionalism and courtesy of the owner and his crew stood in stark contrast to the we-couldn’t-give-a-shit attitude of the moving company.
As I was preparing for their arrival, I went through old bags and boxes as best I could, to make sure I wasn’t tossing anything valuable. Lo and behold, in one bag, I found something I thought had been lost long ago: a team photo of the 1969 Mets in a broken frame. I’d remembered that the frame had broken during my last move, but not that I’d held onto it to repair at some point. I’ve had that photo since the Miracle Year, when I was 13, and rediscovering it delighted me. It also yielded an epiphany: if you hold onto everything, you risk overlooking things that truly matter to you.
Unfortunately, I did just that in a few other cases. The move is finished now, and most of the items I really value have survived. I am missing two beautiful books, but they can be replaced at not too great a cost. Only one thing really stings. Since the night John Lennon died, I’ve kept the initial wire report that I tore off the AP machine while working the night shift that evening at my first newspaper job. Now, it’s nowhere to be found, and I fear that I accidentally left it for the junk crew.
What I realize, though, is that it will always exist in my memory. There’s also been an interesting balancing out in this whole process: the loss of that AP report tempered by the rediscovery of that Mets photo.
Yes, it’s been quite a journey for a guy who’s tended to resist change with the fierceness of a toddler reluctant to let go of a threadbare security blanket. It was also exhausting and overwhelming. There were many days and nights when the task seemed impossible. But in the end, what stands out most in my mind are those Bob Marley lyrics: Everything’s gonna be all right.
