Berkeley's Place

Moving With Memories: The Weird Things We Pack

Not only are we moving, but the Foundation is moving at the same time.

As I cleaned out filing cabinets and sorted through boxes, I found myself taking a walk down memory lane.

The humble beginnings.

Our very first pet store event.
Our first park event.
The first brochures.
The first flyers.

I kept one of everything and tucked them neatly into a box.

I never want to forget where we started.

Because Berkeley's Place began as nothing more than a page.

That's it.

I still remember telling a dear friend, "If 100 people like my page, that would make me happy."

And here we are 13 years later.

Thousands of posts.
Countless hours of research.
Stories shared.
Lessons learned.
Friendships made.

So many memories.

There is one box in particular that will be coming with me.

Inside are the poster boards from every Rainbow Bridge Honoring Ceremony we have ever done—and every one we will continue to do.

To someone else, they might just look like photographs.

To me, they are reminders of lives well lived, deeply loved, and profoundly missed.

Every face represents not only a beloved companion but also one of you. A member of this community who trusted us with your grief and allowed us to honor your cherished friend. That box is irreplaceable.

Of course, I have my own Rainbow Bridge box too.

Old collars.
Favorite toys.
Paw prints.
Photographs.
Little snippets of fur.
Berkeley's blanket.

The tiny treasures that somehow become priceless.

But there is one thing I wish I could take with me, and I know this is going to sound incredibly strange.

The baseboard trim in the upstairs bathroom.

Our beloved Buttons battled bladder cancer during his final years. Despite his best efforts, there were times he simply couldn't make it outside.

But he knew where humans went to do their business.

The bathroom.

And so, more than once, Buttons used the bathroom baseboard as his own personal p*e post.

The bottom of that trim is swollen and puffy from years of accidents.

People would probably look at it and see damage.

I see Buttons.

I never wanted to replace it.

I never wanted to erase that memory.

Because these walls tell stories.

When this house sells, a new family will move in. They'll paint the walls, make renovations, and make this house their own.

They'll probably never know the story behind that damaged baseboard.

They'll only see something that needs fixing.

But I'll always know.

And maybe that's what moving really is.

Packing up the things we can take with us while leaving behind the memories that have become part of the walls themselves.

So now I'm curious...

What was the most emotional thing you've ever packed during a move?