I was in Massachusetts at my parents house, helping them pack. They've decided to join my sister and me in the Pacific Northwest. Wise move, I thought, until I got back there and realized how much needed to be done in ten days.
They were on septic tank and needed to hook up to the sewer line before the house could close. Only eleven days left until closing and the contractor committed to the city to fix a collapsed road. I mean, really. What is more important?
They have a 1930 Buick Phaeton to be moved, with no contract from anyone to move it.
They have twenty years of their lives to pack. Mom got a good start, but there was still so much more. Dad likes to fix lawn mowers and snow blowers and outboard motors. Parts here and parts there and five sets of every kind of tool. Good stuff, but not when it comes to moving 3000 miles into an independent living center.
With my daughter's long distance help, I posted ads on Craig's list for their two regular cars, a set of shield-back chairs (beautiful), a stunning oriental rug and a Pride scooter. My sister, Dale, drove in from Vermont and began contacting car movers. The Buick needs special handling and must be enclosed.
My brother, Mike, flew in from Santa Fe and began sorting through tools and lawn mower parts.
Desperate calls to the sewer contractor go unanswered.
Tums. Rolaids. Mylanta.