We were packing to move.  Uncle Jack and Joe Duggan were there helping us.  The house was total chaos.  There were empty boxes, full boxes, unpacked items, things to throw away, to give away, to keep, all unsorted.  It seemed that no matter how much we packed, we never seemed to make any headway.  We also had trouble finding the right size boxes, trouble sorting the boxes for their various destinations.  Worst of all, there were several large bookshelves full of books, like a library.  I thought most of our books had already been packed (as they have been), and I worried about the weight and how to make a selection of what to get rid of.  I commented on how hard it was to throw away books, and someone-Mary Margaret, I believe-agreed with me.  As I was carrying a box through a narrow building, I brushed against a wall and found out that it had been freshly painted, and I had white paint on my arm.  Then I noticed that all the walls were wet with fresh paint, and that Uncle Jack had been painting them while we packed.  I was incredulous, and had to chastise him, though I felt uncomfortable chastising my uncle.  I think I just said, "Uncle Jack, why in the world did you paint the walls while we are still packing??"  A little later I noticed that the paint had been removed from one wall, and there was an ugly green wallpaper with a floral print peeling underneath.