Two men in gray shirts swung open the back doors and started carrying my fourteen cardboard boxes up the steps.

They lined them up in three tidy rows in the wide living room, close to the empty brick fireplace.

“Where would you like this wooden piece, ma’am?” the older mover asked, lifting the carved mesquite sign from my garage shelf.

“Take that one out to the porch,” I told him.

I followed him out onto the wooden porch.

The original iron hooks were still screwed into the beam over the wooden porch swing, dull gray and worn by weather.

“Hold the left eyelet up to that iron hook there,” I said.