I've rented storage units on and off during my adult life. Probably goes to show that I don't plan very well when I move, or that I've had to move quickly. Guess that's true...

And when I've had one, I have a habit of forgetting about them until something suddenly reminds me.

For the past three years or thereabouts, I've been storing stuff in a room in a garage at my Colorado rental. My tenant there wrote me recently that she has married. She and her new husband want to find a place of their own to buy.

Oh! I suddenly remembered my roomful of stuff. What exactly all was in there? I couldn't remember... But I should check on it at least...

I made arrangements to stop by. "It will be good to see you," said my tenant, "We've been taking care of the place, you'll see." Yes, there are some decent landlord-tenant relationships in the world...

Although the appointment was set, I couldn't resist driving by the old neighborhood a day in advance. I've sold the other rentals including the house I once lived in. They cut down a huge shade trees at my first rental -- why? -- the house now bakes in western heat. They replaced the draught-eaten yard at my former home but the paint is peeling.

My final property. I turn onto the street feeling a bit apprehensive as I haven't seen the place in a year or so. You see, the final property is my favorite.

But everything looked great! The 100-year-old scrub oaks were in place and shading the house and the street, the picket fence appeared sturdy. Tall windows still light the inside, and nothing has been built or has grown to block the view of Pikes Peak. And there's my favorite neighbors!

"Hey, Biker Boy!"
"Hey, Hugshyhermit!"

Biker Boy carries his son on his shoulders; the last time I saw them his wife was pregnant. We make plans to visit: "You know we're moving. We're going to the new cohousing development north of town." That is So Cool! But, who will be my new next door neighbors?

I return the next day to visit the tenants. My tenant's husband is a painter and his art crowds the walls -- nine feet tall walls filled with canvas. My tenant looks radiant; she's lost weight.

"You probably want to see your stuff," she says.
"I have no idea what's there. Maybe I should toss it to the curb."

Ha ha ha, we all laugh. They leave me to it.

Dust -- really dirt -- covers everything. And there, everything comes back to me. Past chapters of my life, in stacks and stacks of boxes, tilting in on themselves in varied states of preservation.

Books. All my law books, all my paralegal books, my paralegal project. Piles and piles of books. All my architectural books -- portfolios on famous architects -- architectural design books, historical survey books, the time-life "fix it" books. More books: A box marked "unread college fiction" -- but that's not true! Right on top is Kerouac's On The Road. But also Neitzche Thus Spake Zarathustra. Emily Dickinsen, Sylvia Plath, John D. McDonald, William Faulkner. Nora Ephron, The Bridges of Madison County. More books -- the self-help piles, Leo Buscaglia, Wayne Dwyer, Zen Buddhism, Our Chosen Faith (about Unitarian Universalism), Pathways to Better Living. More books -- On Being Gay, Living With AIDS, Coming Out Under Fire, The Band Played On. And my writing: the articles in historic preservation magazines, the paralegal newsletter. All the issues as editor of a journal. I had completely forgotten about these things!

Magazines. Mixed in with the books, and heavy. Heavier than the books, weighing boxes beneath them down, hemhorraging them. Probably three years' subscription to The New Yorker from the mid 90s. Not that I read many of them, but the cartoons are cool. Selected Advocate and Out from the late 80s -- my relationship years. Yellow stickies mark the pages where advances in AIDS research is discussed. And finally, in the rear corner of the room, The National Geographic collection. 22 boxes all together. My grandparents seeded the collection, I rounded it out. Complete back to 1929; nearly complete back to 1910; Selected issues back to 1901. Millipedes run for dark as I check, and the familiar, faded yellow covers comfort me nearly as much now as they did when I was fifteen.

Toy cars collection! 3 boxes (at least) of those! Hotwheels, but more than just hotwheels! It was like rediscovering old friends. Mustangs, Chevies, Fords, The Chitty Chitty Bang Bang car, the Bedknobs and Broomsticks Motorcycle, James Bond cars, Packards, Fire engines, trucks, ambulances, racers, american, british, italian (what is that 3-wheeled car from the 50s?), german. All were there with chipped paint, a little dirt.

Photo Albums. The adhesive has mostly failed and the photos have drifted together. Hugshyhermit at the 1979 prom, the 1980 winter formal, in england, in philadelphia. Progressions marked by haircuts and facial hair: A bowlcut, a pompadour, a shaved head, dyed hair; mustaches, goatees, muttonchops and soul-patches. Mom and Dad in france ("Who's that disagreeable old fart?" ha ha ha!), my sister's wedding. Leaf-piles of Hugshyhermit and his ex boyfriend on a perpetual vacation in San Francisco, Puerto Rico, New York, Bermuda, Florida, Cape Cod. Mingled in are postcards, a few letters. "I miss you!"

How can I get rid of this stuff? I borrow my friends' truck and spend the day moving box after box after box to a storage unit.

Five feet by five feet, no windows and a fire door. The first contract is for a year.