The close of a chapter

Time for a change …

Until I’d actually verbalised the notion during an interview with Mick Ross from Kensell Holden, Tamworth, that I could pack up my house, rent it out, buy a motorhome and drive off into the sunset, I didn’t really think it could happen.

Once it was out there in the ether, there was no turning back and the job of packing up my life in Tamworth began.

Sorting 30-plus years of your life in a month is no mean feat – particularly when it’s just a one-person job – which mine was most of the time.

Apart from some wonderful friends dropping in to help do a few specific tasks – and my gorgeous sister landing on my doorstep for 10 days in the thick of the madness – it was pretty much a solo show.

My lounge room … the last bastion

The mistress of snot boxes

Reasonably early on I discovered I was the mistress of snot boxes. Now, that’s not as nasty as it sounds – and it has absolutely nothing to do with mucus.

Do you know what a snot box is, exactly? Well, after this most recent moving experience of mine I’m pretty sure it’s a family trait passed down from my beautiful mother who art in heaven.

It’s an inherited trait

In the housekeeping stakes, mum was up there with the best of them. Not a speck of dust to be found anywhere and never any washing up left in the sink.

While I can’t claim to possess those admirable traits, one habit I did pick up from mum was something I discovered when I was helping pack up her house in Bingara in preparation for a move to the North Coast.

The first snot box in my motorhome. Got it sorted pretty quick-smart, though. Photo: Robert Chappel

Hidden little boxes and bags

Within every pristine room was either a shoebox, small box of some description or perhaps just a shopping bag (either the environmentally-friendly ones or otherwise) containing some random items, poked up the back of a cupboard.

They were vaguely familiar, as I had similar “snot boxes” in my cupboards at home.

The definition of a snot box

Whenever I clean a room from top to toe, at the end of each clean-up there is invariably this odd assortment of “snot” – things that don’t quite go together, which require being placed in various other rooms of the house.

So, instead of being put where they belong, they end up being bunched together, creating a snot box. See – no mucus at all.

Facing the final frontier

Towards the conclusion of the month-long pack-up at 22 Joseph Brown Place, Oxley Vale, the only rooms with anything left in them were the kitchen and lounge. Every other room had been packed up and emptied with the door closed.

Even the dogs were getting anxious about the snot …

Sadly, my lounge room resembled one gigantic snot box of mammoth proportions.

Total despair before victory

A clothes dryer in the middle of the lounge room – what every good home should have! It did serve a purpose though. While drying clothes I could turn off the heater.

At one point it nearly did me in. All I could do was stare at it helplessly, hoping it would go away – but it didn’t. After a two-day face-off – just me and the snot – I attacked each pile, and eventually, there was the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen – a clean, swept, empty lounge room.

After the debacle the lounge room had been, my tiny galley kitchen was a breeze to sort.

Finally … a clean slate

At one stage this is a sight I never thought I’d see.

With my house finally empty – and my cousin Richard’s garage full to overflowing with my worldly possessions – I was on the home stretch (or should that be “leaving home” stretch)?

I’d sold most of my furniture, only keeping my big sleigh bed and mattress, huge coffee table (which was once a desk in the Bank of New South Wales in Bingara, and in later years at the Bingara Radiance Club), and my gorgeous purple lounge.

I did leave a few boxes with John and Judy Martin at Kootingal – stuff that would have tipped Richard’s shed into overload.

Time to hit the road, Jack

Driving out of no. 22 for the last time. Photo: Robert Chappel … see that look of determination on my face – that’s my mother! I am SO her daughter – and proud of it.

No excuses. This is it. Time for some quick goodbyes and I was finally ready to hit the road and begin the next chapter of my life. I was a few days behind my self-imposed schedule, but was happy to be almost on the way …

Living the dream

When I told people what I was doing, without exception all said it was their “dream” to do something similar.

It had been a dream of mine that had been floating around inside my head for the past 12 months or more.
The only difference was, I decided to do it.

Stop thinking about it. If you think about it, you’ll never do anything but that, so you might as well do it.

The fact that I didn’t have the money to buy a motorhome was a mere technicality. I found the money.

Thanks to my clever accountant, Jude Windred, and some good advice from friends, I was able to access some of my superannuation and start raising funds for my big adventure.

A cleansing experience

Selling your possessions can be a very cleansing, therapeutic exercise. Mind you, there’s nothing too therapeutic about a garage sale – more like stress city – but that’s another story!

But really, things are just things. The things that really matter in your life aren’t things at all. It’s the memories you hold in your heart that will stay with you forever, not pieces of furniture, souvenirs or nick-knacks.

Happy trails

I’m not sure where the road will lead me, but I’m so excited at the prospect of getting out there and meeting some incredible people – and seeing some amazing sights.

Be alert, not alarmed, Australia. Here comes Rambling Rose!

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And Please take a moment to leave a comment below. Perhaps you have had some similar experiences you can share. I would love to hear about them!