Three piles:
One pile of stuff we think our kids would love to have.
One pile of things we think we can sell.
And the little pile of things we’ll take with us to our new small townhouse in Eugene.

Ed and I are downsizing. It’s too much work to maintain our McKenzie River property. Old-growth tree limbs fall on our roof. Moss and mold grow everywhere, even in our shower. No amount of sealing keeps mice out of our house.

It’s just too much.

I look across our bedroom, which has not yet disintegrated into the three piles. On the small bedside table, I see a white lamp with a flexible neck, bent over so its face permanently stares down at the table. Two watches lie side-by-side. A digital alarm clock, the kind with a magnified large-number face. And a framed photo of the two of us emerging from an ancient cave in Costa Rica in…I can no longer remember when…We look so young.

All atop a cherry bedside table that was made in the heart of Amish country.

That means quality, you know, the kind you just can’t find any longer.
I love Amish furniture. The Amish make furniture that provides long-lasting value. Not the cheap imported stuff that floods the Internet these days. Not the mass-produced reproductions.

Amish quality ensures we can pass the things we love down to many generations.

“No, Mom.” My daughter’s blue eyes seem to plead. I know she would rather not hurt my feelings. “I know you love it, but I don’t want any of that stuff.”

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