Well, we made it.
Moving is never fun — not the packing up part of it, anyway, or the unloading of it all — but we got ’er done.
Our lovely neighbor offered to have some of his friends from church come and help us load stuff onto the big ol’ truck, and Hubs tried to decline.
I punched his arm and said, “We have to have help! I can’t lift much more than a box of Kleenex!”
Having said that, I used to be able to lift and move just about anything: air conditioning units, weight sets…they didn’t call me “The Gal From the Longshoremen’s Union” for nothing! Y’all know, however, once you twist that sciatic nerve … ooooh mama. It ain’t fun. Sittin’ standin’ sleepin’ … feels like you got gored by a bull in your fanny 24/7.
So, Saturday morning comes and we are cruising on four hours of sleep and a strong cup of coffee when the first of our moving help arrives.
Within minutes we have five extra pairs of hands to help.
Each of those pairs belonged to fellas pushing 80.
Rock on, Grampas.
They weren’t terribly strong, but they loaded up as much as we asked them to and then went home to take naps.
One fella, a retired executive from Lockheed Martin, came three times that day. God bless him, I think he was the oldest of the crew. Shortly after he arrived for his third trip, another one came back. He apologized for having napped so long. He was sure sweet for coming back. I helped him out by giving him the lightest things I could find: blankets and pillows.
Hubs did most of the heavy stuff by himself, but they were quick to come in and scoop up whatever they could find and load on that truck.
That’s why when I was opening bins after the move, I found a dryer vent in one of them.
A dryer vent? What the…?
I found a small bag of trash in another one.
Some busted up old — whatever it used to be — in another.
Oh, come on!
Hubs loaded up some of his crap too, while my otherwise very watchful eye was turned elsewhere.
Did we really need to haul a bag of grout?
Was that skateboard wheel necessary? We don’t even have a skateboard anymore.
I ain’t dryin’ off with those paint covered towels…you take ‘em!
I keep opening bins expecting to find necessary items.
I am finding so little of those, but so much more of stuff that was meant for the garbage crew.
I won’t go into detail, but I have no idea where I’m gonna put all this extra … stuff … except maybe down in the recycling bins. I have to go alone down there or Hubs will find another man’s trash … and it will become his treasure.
Oh, he’s an American Picker all right.
“If I glue this and put some duck tape on that, it’ll be good as new!”
You know what I mean.
I gotta give a shout-out to my friend Mia, though. She is 81 and rocks like a teenager. She came over and totally took control of the kitchen for me, which I was loathe to do. Never seen a woman that age git jiggy with it like she did.
The day of the move was one of the hottest I can recall for late June.
By the time those old duffers were heading home for naps, it was already 102.
Driving through the desert, it hit about 107.
As we made the descent down into the land of milk and honey (and bankruptcies and foreclosures), it started to cool off.
By the time we pulled up in front our new digs, it was 67 degrees.
I didn’t just get down and kiss the ground I was standing on, I laid my fat old butt down and rolled around on that nice cool ground!
After two days of unloading the moving van, Hubs had clearly aged about 10 years in one weekend.
I kept wondering if I would have to borrow a nitroglycerin pill from a neighbor to slip under his tongue, but he held his own.
Speaking of neighbors, I’ve met one two doors down.
Lovely old bird about 90.
All she remembers is how good her mother’s cabbage rolls were.
She doesn’t know what day or month or year it is, but by golly, she’s taking that one good memory to the grave with her.
Maybe we can enlist her for our next move … she’s got a walker with a storage shelf on it.