Throw it away

When we had our kitchen done in our old house...

Augh.  I should not think about this.  I loved that kitchen.  It was practically perfect, and beautifully aesthetically pleasing besides, custom designed to fit my exact needs.  I miss my kitchen.  But this is not a post about my kitchen.  No.

When we had the kitchen redone, we (obviously) had to empty the original cabinets, and I found myself in quandaries about what to do with things.

I remember when they took down the cabinet over the refrigerator.  There was (among other things) a handmade puppet toy in that cabinet.  It was made from a cone and a stick, and by pushing up on the stick, you could pop a colorful, handmade clown up out of the cone.  Someone gave it to me at a baby shower for Shannon.

Having a long dowel as one of its major working parts, it was not the safest toy, nor was it good for cooperative play; things made of long dowels invariably become weapons, clubs, things to swing at people who do not have one.  This, no doubt, is why it had been consigned to the cupboard over the refrigerator.

That day, the cupboard detached from the wall and askew, open on the floor, I lifted the puppet toy out and considered it.  It was cute, handmade, a gift from a friend.

The guy who was doing the job looked over my shoulder.  "What's that?" he asked.

"It's a puppet toy," I said.  "I don't know what to do with it."

He took it out of my hands, smashed it across his knee, and handed it, in pieces, back to me.  "It's broken," he said.  "Throw it away."

This story recurs to me over and over and over as I unpack boxes packed by our Bad Packer.  "It's broken.  Throw it away.  It's broken.  Throw it away."

On the plus side: the next time we move, there will be less to move.