Last week I moved across town to a different house. I wasÂ excited about moving into the new house except obviously for the actual moving part. I have moved more times than anyone because of my career, and each one has had its own share of challenges. Other than moving at the end of November in North Dakota, not the wisest decision I might say it was about as painless as a move can be. Now donâ€™t get me wrong I complained and grumbled to anyone who would listen including the dogs before and after picking up every plastic tub wondering out loud what treasures it contained and how many times had I moved the crap. I figured a conservative estimate of the boxes that filled up two trucks was somewhere between two to three thousand, and had the accumulative weight of North Dakotaâ€™s annual wheat production. Moving tub after tub I wondered would anyone really care if I just gathered the whole lot and took it to the dump. Most tubs had vague descriptions of the contents or which member of the family owned it. My daughter and son each had more than their share of tubs, despite the fact that neither has lived with us for two years. Amanda has been gone for over three years and owns her on home surely she should take possessions of these hidden treasures. I picked up one of her tubs that weighed slightly less than a full grown woolly mammoth, and figured enough was enough. I tore off the lid and decided to see for my self what was so important that it should require a trip to the chiropractor to move it. Nothing I thought that has sat in a box for at least three years was worth this aggravation and effort. I was wrong of course there sitting inside on the top of the tub were photographs of my daughter. Among the hundreds were her with the Havre High golf team, her best friend Danni, prom pictures of her and the boy she married among others. After reminiscing for a while I neatly replaced the memories back in the tub and gently carried it upstairs with the others.