Mom’s Loot Party—When I announced that I was moving from my beloved mountain home, the kids were at first shocked and made call after call to learn if I were obliquely announcing a terminal illness. They were even more concerned when I invited them to come pick out the household items they could use. Finally, assured that I was still in good health and had my wits about me, my lighthearted and ever-supportive offspring named the plan for distribution of goods “Mom's Loot Party.” You may want to give your distribution plan a more genteel name, such as the “Salvation Soiree” or “Deliverance Day.” Whatever you call it, the gratitude of the recipients and the reduction of things to pack should brighten your spirits, not to speak of easing the strain on your back muscles.

The children were grateful for whatever I offered and pleased to use the haul-away date as another reason for a last visit to the mountain retreat they all enjoyed. It made me happy to give away treasures and many practical items that—though worn—were welcomed. The kids made me promise to visit my donated possessions at their homes often.

Actually, distributing the loot turned into a series of informal gatherings. These were held on any day the recipients could come to the mountain. Busy as they were, most chose different days and this was good in several ways. With the house in disarray and boxes—both empty and packed—piling up, it was simpler to host no more than two children at a time. But I set a deadline. If they couldn't arrive within my designated nine-day time frame (two weekends and the days between), they were out of luck. The loot would go into my next major event: The Stuff Sale.

To feed these visitors, I usually ordered pizza and provided paper plates so that cookware and serving plates they planned to carry away would not be needed for our shared meals.

My mother’s china had already been promised and transferred to my youngest birth son. The flatware went to my eldest son, whose initials matched those engraved on the sterling. The silver serving dishes went to the middle birth son. These things were of more sentimental value to those three than to the stepkids.

One daughter needed kitchenware. Her sister had dibs on a couple of chairs and lamp tables—but she could not take them at that time. This was fortunate for me because I had space for and needed these items in my Palms apartment. They were marked with her name and remained in my possession until my last move. This daughter loves to cook. So on her day at the loot party, she commandeered my cookbooks, some dating from the late 1940s.

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Just Pencil Me In is packed with no-nonsense advice for movers of all ages, but is especially geared to those over 60 years old who may have concerns considerably different from those of younger movers.

The title comes from the author’s sympathy for friends whose address books were gaining pages of crossed-out addresses as she moved from place to place. To prevent still another cross-out, she suggested, “Just pencil me in!”

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