Sunday. Day of rest. Did anyone check this cabinet? Dear Lord. It is still full. More boxes. Is there any room on the truck?
My parents are supposed to fly out to the West Coast on August 1. I'm leaving on July 28. Someone has the brilliant idea that my dad should go with me and my mom will stay to sign the documents and get the check on the 31st.
We spend the morning packing the airbeds we slept on last night, and the sheets and pillows and remaining lamps, and lampshades, and bathroom supplies and manage to pack at least 20 more boxes. Where is all this coming from?
The dump is closed.
I drive my mother down to the nearest car rental place. Dale packs a huge load into her car and takes off for Vermont at 1pm. She has an art opening she must prepare for.
Mike loads all the rest of the boxes onto the truck and squeezes the doors shut. He fires up the engine and pulls out of the driveway at 4pm, enroute to Portland via Santa Fe.
Mom and Dad and I take a load of items to my cousins, including a dehumidifier that is practically new. We check into a hotel and shower and meet their neighbors at "Not Your Average Joe's" restaurant. I don't know how my parents can sit up in their chairs, yet they are troopers. I am not. I'm the first to admit I'm tired, cranky, sweaty, sore and I've got a huge mosquito bite on my cheek. This does not make me happy. But the neighbors are so sweet and cheerful and they've brought their parents along and it is a farewell party. It warms my heart.
The toilet is broken in the hotel. They don't have anyone to fix it. We can move to a different room.
Lord have mercy.
I lift the cover off the tank and dip my scabbed hands into the water and hook the chain back up to the paperclip that was holding two pieces of chain together. There is still some rum in the bottle in the little kitchen area of the hotel room. Ice clinks into three glasses. Cola sizzles. Rum glugs.
I get on Craig's list and someone wants to buy the van. I call him from my cell phone, running low on charge and minutes. He'll come to the house at 5pm tomorrow.
We've packed the pink slip. It is now 500 miles from us, somewhere on the truck. And I need the van because I'm going to have at least two more loads to the dump to do myself tomorrow.
Yeah, sure. Come tomorrow at 5pm.