32 Boxes

Trish Elms

2005

'Rick James is coming with us and so is Abba,'I declare. My husband is rolling his eyes, silently drawing the line at the soundtrack to Xanadu.

As per usual, with all the good intentions in the world, we've left everything to the last minute. Now, with only a day to go, we're faced with the monumental task of sorting lives accumulated over the space of five years in Canada, into 32 small brown cardboard boxes to be transported across the continents to start anew in Scotland. Well, with a bit of luck, anyway.

Have we lost our minds? Conceivably yes. If we were more sensible or organised, we would have developed a plan, or at the very least neat little lists in which to logically compartimalise our belongings in order of importance. But who am I kidding - that would have been far too sane and probably more difficult in the long run. How do you choose Pulp over REM? It's impossible and so we'll take both.

Scotland isn't completely foreign to me. I lived there once before with little more than the contents of the rucksack on my back. Back then who needed more than a few cherished CDs, a decent fitting pair of jeans, a few clean pairs of underwear (you just never know when you'll get lucky or wind up in hospital) and a journal to scribble the intimate details, immortalising the adventure? But that was nearly a decade ago, I was younger, more adventurous and adaptable then, and had far less stuff. I was possibly also slightly more foolish and certainly far less materialistic.

Now starting a life with less than everything I began with seems daunting.

Thankfully we don't have the hassle of trying to transport an entire flat's worth of possessions across the ocean. We've sold most of our furniture, really everything and the kitchen sink, to the girl who will shortly take up residence in the tiny apartment that has been our home for the past five years. We have left pieces of our lives hidden in these wooden floorboards, mastered the art of making a mostly edible dinner in a claustrophobic kitchen, and shared secrets between the sheets of a well used bed. If walls could talk, this new tenant would hear many tales of laughter, sorrow, love and friendship.

Maybe like me, she thought the summer of 2005 seemed as good as anytime to change a life. She beamed enthusiasm and in ways reminded me of myself, full of optimism; compelled by the beginning of a new chapter in her life and the prospect of having a place to finally call her very own. I hope she will enjoy it here, and remember to water the plants now and again. They now also belong to her.

But there remains the business of selecting the finalists and ultimate winners that will begin this new Scottish existence with us across the sea. Beyond the obvious books, shoes, clothes, photographs and sentimental trinkets, it's difficult to know what will stay and what will go. When staring you in the face, it's nearly impossible to decide what you could actually live without.

I hardly know where to begin, and so we inadvertently start with Rick James and the vast music collection that two people have acquired over the span of a life time without and with one another. As I face the towering pile of CDs and vinyl, I realise that this has little to do with logic and is more about heart.

Sifting through the pile of music I discover that not all Rick's are equal; letting go of quick-and-easy musical guff is painless, surprisingly freeing; kind of like disinfecting the soul. I feel strangely liberated as I place the offending CDs in the shoebox marked 'Darren', a friend with a music collection so abysmal that our offerings of Ace-of-Base and Rick Astley will actually make a small improvement.

What benefit can be found in keeping two copies of CDs that will only take up precious space in our 32 boxes? And yet, neither of as are willing to part with our respective cherished copies of OK Computer or the Counting Crows' ethereal August and Everything After. Same CDs, different memories, different countries, different lifetimes. Care free student days when we longed for nothing more than long lie-ins and late nights with cheap beer. I didn't know him then and I don't drink beer anymore, but the memories that come flooding back can't be as easily discarded and so the duplicates will travel in box 22 together.

We spend the afternoon shuffling through our lives, finding well loved books, faded love letters and reviving nearly forgotten moments in photographs. By dinner time, box after box is filled until a mountainous brown wall emerges in our hallway with 'this way up', 'fragile' and 'handle with care' printed across it in his erratic handwriting. Careful, this is the remains of our lives, handle with the outmost respect, care and concern or suffer the wrath of lady karma would have been more appropriate, but far too long.

They'll be picked up and shipped off tomorrow, as will we, boarding a plane for the west of Scotland and the new life that awaits us there.

Physically our apartment doesn't appear that different. Same deep blue musty coach, wooden coffee table on wheels and large abstract Ikea print remain, serving as reminders that we were here. And yet, everything has changed. A new life has begun; our past life entrusted to the hands of the shippers.

Along with our other carefully chosen belongings, I'm hopeful that in roughly a month's time Rick(James), Olivia Newton John, Bjorn, Benny and crew will meet us in Glasgow, ready to set the soundtrack for the new life we are about to build.