Writing In a New Room

I am writing this from a room in my new condo. I think in my last post I was in the grip of my anxiety disorder and I stated that it would be nice if I composed my next entry from my new residence. Well, here it is.

I am in a one floor, ranch-style condo on Columbus's northwest side of town. It's in a relatively small, very quiet condo community. A few hours ago a neighbor, an older lady named Pam, came by and gave me a welcome gift of a basket with some fancy mints. It is a far cry from my old condo community which had loud cars, barking dogs and occasionally barking neighbors. I never knew the name of any of those old neighbors, not one, and I lived there for over 20 years. In my new condo it took two days. I met a neighbor before I had furniture.

As for my anxiety disorder that I have mentioned in this entry and in my last; it is not gone, but it has subsided greatly. Death no longer seems imminent.

I am buying new furniture and carrying almost nothing of any size from my old place. The old sofa, rickety table and chairs, and bed are going either to the Volunteers of America, or out along the curb for bulk trash pickup. In about a half dozen car trips I have moved small appliances, dishes and plates, a few small pieces of furniture, and a lot of knickknacks. This evening I made one of my last trips back to the old condo. I drove off with golf clubs, some clothes, and the few hand tools I own. With my car loaded, I locked the old condo's door and drove a few blocks down the street when I abruptly pulled off the road. I had suddenly realized that I had forgotten one of the most important things. I had been taking stuff from the basement, closets, and from the drawers. I had missed what had been prominently hanging from one wall in my living room.

Mom, Dad, wherever you are, no need to fret; I drove right back and got it... 

Framed photos of Mom and Dad, as they were during WWII