While some consider foliage and apple-picking the quintessential markers of fall in New England, I wait for Allston Christmas—Boston’s sacred holiday, when thousands of college kids move out, dump everything they own on the curb, and go back to wherever they came from with regrets and security deposits withheld.
September 1st marks this most Boston of holidays—the city’s biggest move-in day—in the neighborhood where Boston College, Boston University, Harvard, MIT, and Northeastern collide. Students return to dorms, summer subletters relocate, and moving trucks of every stripe clog the streets. Sidewalks become chaotic treasure troves where the brave dive for discarded couches, kitchen equipment, and the occasional glitter-covered lampshade that somehow survived the madness.
While others spend Labor Day grilling burgers, I’m out in my daughter’s borrowed pickup (yes, it’s a family affair), hunting for treasure like a suburban pirate. I don’t furnish rooms—I curate life’s delightful mess. Every item in my house has a story. And a healthy dose of “handle with care.”
My bar cart? Acquired at 2 a.m. from Harvard and Commonwealth Avenues. It leans slightly to the left, much like my politics and posture.
The coffee table? A solid oak beast with a Japanese inlay—cranes, cherry blossoms, the whole meditative vibe—hauled five blocks by me and either a freshman from MIT or a hallucination brought on by heatstroke.
I once spotted a near-pristine velvet chaise lounge perched atop a recycling bin like a prom queen on a float. Tempted, I recalled the number one rule of Allston Christmas is no fabric furniture, for that’s how the Great Bedbug Infestation of Greater Boston 2019 began. I left her behind, regal and riddled with risk, still smelling faintly of patchouli and heartbreak.
Another rule: Never ignore milk crates. They make the best makeshift bookcases, but more importantly, they’re the Trojan horse of the sidewalk scene—blocking the real treasure, like the antique bureau my daughter dragged home years ago.
You have to be bold, quick, and ready to ask, Can I carry this dresser two blocks uphill while keeping my dignity? (Answer: no—but thankfully, Bennie showed up with a pickup, ratchet straps, and the calm efficiency of someone who’d been training her whole life for this—by her mother.)
My home is a living museum of other people’s poor choices—and I adore it. Every scuffed table, every wobbly chair, every faux-Tiffany lampshade proves beauty doesn’t need a price tag. Sometimes it comes with a questionable stain and a colorful origin story.
Forget Restoration Hardware. I prefer Restoration Curb Appeal. Because it turns out, you can build a beautiful life from what others leave behind. All you need is a strong back, an open heart, and a good bottle of disinfectant. | 
