The Great Downsizing Heist
At my age, moving is no small task
My wife and I have always been healthy considering our advanced age. I’m 92, and her birthday is classified information. For months, our children had been urging us to move to a retirement residence, but I was adamant. We will only leave our family home “feet first.”
The turning point wasn’t my inability to climb a ladder to change lightbulbs or keep the garden in order; it was when my wife had a fall. In that moment, my stubbornness gave way to a sobering reality. It was time to downsize and leave our home—the hub of our life for 20 years.
Downsizing turned into a whirlwind tour of our life to date and offered an unnerving glimpse of what lay ahead. We became archaeologists and time travelers. As we prepared for our upcoming move, a low hum of anxiety drummed away in the background
The moving truck was coming in two weeks.
The pressure was intense. Everything we owned had to be examined and judged. Our wardrobes, furniture, kitchen gadgets, plates, glasses, and forks. The dining room buffet had to be emptied, the silverware reviewed. Even the food in the pantry, fridge, and freezer had to make the cut.
We unearthed long-forgotten sound systems, clunky old laptops, and believe it or not, two BlackBerrys the size of matchbooks. One cupboard under the back stairs hadn’t been opened in over a decade, and the musty smell of forgotten things filled the air. Our library alone was a monumental challenge, thousands of books accumulated over long careers in publishing. Each one held a story, and not just the one printed inside.
Decisions, thousands of them, had to be made on the fly, like dodging bullets in a video game. Bam, bam, bam! No time to reminisce, no time to savor. Even when we stumbled on an old photo that tugged at the heart or a birthday card from someone now gone, there was no room for lollygagging. What could we take to our much smaller new home? What must we discard, donate, or pass on to our kids?
After a day or two of rambling from room to room, Babs and I sat down and admitted the obvious: we needed a process.
Step One: Clothes.
Babs opened her wardrobe and froze. It wasn’t just full; it was a historical archive. Over her long career, she’d built a wardrobe that could outfit the cast of a Netflix drama set in board rooms, first-class cabins, and black-tie ballrooms, as well as every season of Canadian weather. Now, we rarely even go to the movies because theaters involve lots of stairs and no railings.
She called our youngest daughter, Amanda, for help. Amanda has a sharp eye, a great sense of humor, and the unshakable resolve of a third-grade teacher. She agreed to come on Saturday and help Babs sort out her clothes.
When she arrived, Amanda sat her mother firmly on the bed and began what can only be described as a ceremonial purge. Her entire wardrobe held up for judgment: keep or donate? Amanda was ruthlessly efficient, but always with a twinkle in her eye. By the end of the day, Babs’s wardrobe had been reduced by 80%. Her drawers, shoes, accessories, and lingerie all got the same treatment. It was like a reverse shopping spree.
Sixteen bags were labeled for the local thrift shop. Eight more were destined for next week’s garbage pickup. And one hatbox, full of jewelry and heirloom accessories, including a ruby necklace and an antique watch, went home with Amanda for safekeeping. One day, these treasures will be passed on to daughters, granddaughters, and dear friends. But not yet. Not just yet.
Step Two: Me
The next day, it was my turn.
Luckily, I was ahead of the game. I’d done a major wardrobe cleanout last year after losing 25 pounds. But one mystery remained: the sock drawer. I discovered 18 lonely, unmatched socks. Eighteen! Could our family home be haunted by a rogue sock gnome?
With the clothes sorted, we felt a little lighter. Until we looked around and realized this was just Round One—and the moving truck was arriving in 12 days.
Step Three: Food
The next major downsizing challenge? Food, and everything that goes with it.
You’d think this would be simple. It’s just a kitchen, right? But no. Our kitchen, pantry, and dining room required a two-stage strategy. First, we needed to sort and pack a lifetime’s worth of dishes, gadgets, appliances, spices, and dry goods. But at the same time, we had to keep enough supplies on hand to feed ourselves for the final stretch.
Enter Charron, our oldest daughter. She’s a wardrobe manager for film and TV productions, and in that world, she’s a master of solving logistical nightmares under pressure. When she heard we were struggling, she cleared her schedule and flew from Vancouver to Toronto.
Our wardrobe was already sorted, so she took command of the kitchen and dining room. And when I say command, I mean it. Charron showed up with a clipboard, a carry-on suitcase, and the energy of a Hollywood production crew.
First, she sat Babs and me down like we were two slightly confused actors unsure what to wear in the next scene. Then she began firing off questions and jotting down notes. What would we want to eat this week? What meals would we cook after the move? Which items must be packed, which donated, and which would be coming with us whether we liked it or not?
She turned chaos into choreography.
Every pot, pan, spatula, spice jar, and vintage serving tray was scrutinized. Her decisions were swift, confident, and final. By midday, she had built a masterful checklist that would make a movie director weep with joy. She even ensured we’d have proper meals in the new place, stocking us with a modest starter pantry for our post-move life.
Charron was ruthlessly efficient, but never unkind. Her blend of tough love and surgical precision was a masterclass in organized survival.
By the time she left, the kitchen was stripped down, the dining room was boxed up, and Babs and I were left with a clearly labeled survival station: one frying pan, two mugs, four forks, a few essential ingredients, and just enough chocolate to remind us we were still human.
Charron had done all this in just eight days.
But now, the moving truck was arriving in just ten days.
Step Four: Furniture and Art
Next on our ever-growing to-do list: sorting out the furniture we could fit into our new digs and figuring out what to do with the art we’d collected over a lifetime. More than two-thirds of it would have to go.
But, these weren’t just “things.” They were chapters of our life story. A worn armchair wasn’t just a place to sit; it was a silent witness to years of conversations, laughter, and quiet reflection. A chipped vase wasn’t just flawed ceramic; it was the centerpiece from a memorable family dinner, its imperfection now part of its charm.
Each piece demanded immediate assessment, not just of its physical worth, but of its meaning in the arc of our lives.
To help with the triaging of our furniture issues, we turned to our son Peter. Having recently moved himself, Peter understood both the logistics and sentiment involved in our situation. With the critical eye of a film editor and a twinkle in his eye, he took command.
In just two days, Peter helped us decide what furniture to keep and what must go. He even looked after the hiring of a moving company and oversaw the removal of our excess furniture. He did this with surgical precision and surprising grace.
We breathed a sigh of relief. Another major hurdle cleared.
Until it hit us. The moving truck was arriving in just eight days.
Step Five: Final Logistics
Holy shite, there were still issues to settle with the retirement residence lease. Who was going to review the contract? Set up our computers and internet service after the move? Reprogram Alexa and Google Home? Who would oversee the agreed-upon renovations in the kitchen and bathrooms?
I certainly didn’t have the bandwidth, or the expertise.
Once again, our family came to the rescue.
Brian, our son-in-law and Amanda’s husband, called and said he was taking a few vacation days to help us sort out the legal and technical details of our move. Brian is one of the kindest and brightest senior executives I’ve ever met. He works at a major brewery and knows exactly how to get things done. In this moment, that’s exactly what we needed.
And that was a good thing because the moving truck was arriving in six days.
And then, disaster struck. While moving a box of books, I somehow managed to give myself a hernia. Until that day, I didn’t realize that literature can be dangerous. It felt like my abdomen had just staged a jailbreak. Peter immediately called a cab, and off we went to Mount Sinai Hospital. Six hours later, I was stitched up and officially benched for the move.
But, as always, our family leapt into action. Amanda and Brian drove back to Toronto on moving day to help Peter unpack and organize our new home. They arranged furniture, set up my computer, and got our clothes organized in cupboards and drawers.
With the help of our team, the move went off like clockwork.
The Next Stage of Our Life Adventure
Now, as we sit in our new home, I feel a strange mix of relief, gratitude, and disbelief.
Downsizing wasn’t just a matter of space; it was a confrontation with time, memory, and identity. We let go of a thousand things, but held onto what matters most: love, laughter, and the unshakable bond of family.
And if I’ve learned anything, it’s this: It takes a village to raise a child, yes, but it takes a damn good family to help the elders downsize.
One final piece of advice? Never underestimate the power of chocolate.
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