We have been trekking to the new place almost bi-monthly all summer. Over Labor Day we packed the antique treadles into the back of the Tacoma. I truly wanted to take them all: the Howe, the Wilcox and Gibbs, the Davis and the Mystery Singer. I was willing to leave behind the Mystery Singer. Ouch. Luckily, I didn't have to.
That's it right there.
The Davis and the Howe and the Wilcox and Gibbs are all jammed in there. I packed up each machine and tucked them where ever we could. I jammed the containers full of fabric anywhere they would fit, too. We are packers.
I'm absolutely not sad to be moving. I am not sad that I ditched a lot of stuff. I am suffering from the chaos of the move. This morning I could not find any underwear. I really needed clean panties. I eventually found them, buried in a suitcase. But not before panicking a little bit.
The new space is dark. It's a basement after all. There are two windows. Hanging the shop lights and painting the walls with white dri-lock made all the difference. All the stuff is piled in the middle of the floor to provide access to the walls.
I have a Kenmore and a Singer 66 left. I have to deal with them over the next few days. Or maybe I should just pack them up.