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.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
July 25, 2009
We are all up by 5:30. Shower. Mom is packing up her office paperwork and hasn't eaten. I'm packing while I have a bowl of cereal. My brother is loading the "Mom's attic" of the huge Uhaul truck. There is a knock on the door at 6:30am. It is the movers. We are not ready.
But we are paying them an enormous amount an hour so they begin tossing blankets over furniture and wrapping them with stretch wrap. Boxes are being hauled out to the truck faster than we can pack them. A car shows up in the driveway at 7:15am. A couple comes in and buys the shield-back chairs. Just in time because the movers had already tried to load them onto the truck.
A big rig shows up and off-loads a backhoe and other equipment, all vying for space in the driveway. The roaring of earth moving equipment echos through the neighborhood.
I have TWO fever blisters on my lips from the stress. Just great. The truck is loaded except for all the stuff I couldn't pack "until the last minute." Well the last minute was four hours ago. The people we hired to load the truck are gone now and we'll have to load all the dang stuff ourselves.
A couple more loads to the dump.
I keep looking around and expecting to see the devil sitting in the room with me, saying, "welcome."
But we are paying them an enormous amount an hour so they begin tossing blankets over furniture and wrapping them with stretch wrap. Boxes are being hauled out to the truck faster than we can pack them. A car shows up in the driveway at 7:15am. A couple comes in and buys the shield-back chairs. Just in time because the movers had already tried to load them onto the truck.
A big rig shows up and off-loads a backhoe and other equipment, all vying for space in the driveway. The roaring of earth moving equipment echos through the neighborhood.
I have TWO fever blisters on my lips from the stress. Just great. The truck is loaded except for all the stuff I couldn't pack "until the last minute." Well the last minute was four hours ago. The people we hired to load the truck are gone now and we'll have to load all the dang stuff ourselves.
A couple more loads to the dump.
I keep looking around and expecting to see the devil sitting in the room with me, saying, "welcome."
July 24, 2009
It is pouring. Rain is coming down in sheets and we have run two loads to the dump and are madly packing boxes. We purchased boxes from Uhaul. Fine, sturdy boxes. Can I pack this lamp?
No, wait to the last moment.
Can I pack the towels and bathroom things?
No, wait to the last moment.
Can I pack all the food and the rest of the glasses and plates and silverware and bowls?
No, wait to the last moment.
I am frustrated beyond belief. The truck and packers will be here in the morning. My mother's car has been sold through Craig's list. Someone is coming tomorrow at 7:30 to look at the shield-back chairs. It is a shame to sell them as they are beautiful, but they will not have room for them.
Another load to the dump.
The contractor is supposed to start the sewer project today. Seven days until closing. Rain is sleeting down.
Can I pack Dad's clothes?
Wait until the last moment.
The contractor arrives and we run another load to the dump. How can it be so dang hot when it is raining?
Crisis. I've packed the pots and pans. We have to go out for supper. Sweaty, dirty, dog tired, we tramp into Ted Turner's restaurant in Westborough. Service is as slow as blood through a clogged artery. We're afraid to say anything for fear of a stroke if we do. Our heads are nodding forward and I'm sure I hear a snore. The food finally arrives an hour later and I can hardly lift the fork. By the time we finish eating, I'm so stiff I can barely stand up. Into bed by 8:50pm.
No, wait to the last moment.
Can I pack the towels and bathroom things?
No, wait to the last moment.
Can I pack all the food and the rest of the glasses and plates and silverware and bowls?
No, wait to the last moment.
I am frustrated beyond belief. The truck and packers will be here in the morning. My mother's car has been sold through Craig's list. Someone is coming tomorrow at 7:30 to look at the shield-back chairs. It is a shame to sell them as they are beautiful, but they will not have room for them.
Another load to the dump.
The contractor is supposed to start the sewer project today. Seven days until closing. Rain is sleeting down.
Can I pack Dad's clothes?
Wait until the last moment.
The contractor arrives and we run another load to the dump. How can it be so dang hot when it is raining?
Crisis. I've packed the pots and pans. We have to go out for supper. Sweaty, dirty, dog tired, we tramp into Ted Turner's restaurant in Westborough. Service is as slow as blood through a clogged artery. We're afraid to say anything for fear of a stroke if we do. Our heads are nodding forward and I'm sure I hear a snore. The food finally arrives an hour later and I can hardly lift the fork. By the time we finish eating, I'm so stiff I can barely stand up. Into bed by 8:50pm.
July 23, 2009
Things are so hectic we lost track of the days. By the time 8pm rolls around we drop into bed.
Dale found someone to move the 1930 Buick. The truck came, but they have the main road closed due to the sidewalk collapse on the next street (the one the sewer contractor is fixing instead of hooking the house up to the sewer). We had to go pick up the woman truck driver in town. She parked the huge 84' car carrier next to the Westborough fire station and rode back with us. We had to change the tire on the Buick when we took it off the jacks and then we put a rope around the bumper and pulled it out of the garage. Very scary because we didn't know if the brakes still worked and it is a slight incline. But they held. Then we had to back it down the very long, very steep driveway and out into the road. My uncle Jim and I stopped traffic on route 135 while my brother moved the van in front of the car. He and the truck driver, Lori, put a short rope around Buick's axle or bumper and hooked it to the trailer hitch on the van. My uncle and I had trouble getting people to stop on the busy Route 135. Seems people don't want to stop when someone waves the back of a yellow "yard sale" sign at them. It was harrowing. When the rope was hooked up there was about eight feet of clearance.
Lori and my Uncle Jim jumped into the Buick and my brother and I jumped into the van and towed the car at 15mph down Route 135 to Church street and out onto West Main where we had to negotiate the manic rotary where no one stops. Terrifying. Under the best of circumstances, only native residents of Massachusetts can brave the rotaries without suffering Post Traumatic Shock Disorder after. And each time we had to apply brakes, with only eight feet between us, my heart rate accelerated to 175 beats per minute. When we sped up again there would be a series of thump, thump, thump.
"They're crashing into us, they're crashing into us," I'd scream.
My brother would holler, "No, no, it is the rope jerking them along." Oh, that is so much better. Jerking the bumper off the car would be fine. I hung out the window, flailing my arms so the maniac New England drivers wouldn't smack into us like bumper cars at the amusement park as we went around the rotary.
We pulled in to the fire station and all the firemen came out and told us to move the car up just a little so they could get out if they got a call. Then they stood around and talked and examined the car while the Lori rearranged the Ferrari she already had in the car carrier and made room for the Buick. Because the Buick wasn't running, she had to use a come-along and the firemen and my brother and uncle and I all pushed the car up onto the rear gate of the truck and then up onto the carrier until she could reach it with the come-along.
The whole thing took about 2.5 hours, and then we left and came back in time to run three more loads to the dump.
Yikes.
I'm so tired I might go to be at 7pm.
Oh wait, the neighbor just came over with a blender and tequila.
Dale found someone to move the 1930 Buick. The truck came, but they have the main road closed due to the sidewalk collapse on the next street (the one the sewer contractor is fixing instead of hooking the house up to the sewer). We had to go pick up the woman truck driver in town. She parked the huge 84' car carrier next to the Westborough fire station and rode back with us. We had to change the tire on the Buick when we took it off the jacks and then we put a rope around the bumper and pulled it out of the garage. Very scary because we didn't know if the brakes still worked and it is a slight incline. But they held. Then we had to back it down the very long, very steep driveway and out into the road. My uncle Jim and I stopped traffic on route 135 while my brother moved the van in front of the car. He and the truck driver, Lori, put a short rope around Buick's axle or bumper and hooked it to the trailer hitch on the van. My uncle and I had trouble getting people to stop on the busy Route 135. Seems people don't want to stop when someone waves the back of a yellow "yard sale" sign at them. It was harrowing. When the rope was hooked up there was about eight feet of clearance.
Lori and my Uncle Jim jumped into the Buick and my brother and I jumped into the van and towed the car at 15mph down Route 135 to Church street and out onto West Main where we had to negotiate the manic rotary where no one stops. Terrifying. Under the best of circumstances, only native residents of Massachusetts can brave the rotaries without suffering Post Traumatic Shock Disorder after. And each time we had to apply brakes, with only eight feet between us, my heart rate accelerated to 175 beats per minute. When we sped up again there would be a series of thump, thump, thump.
"They're crashing into us, they're crashing into us," I'd scream.
My brother would holler, "No, no, it is the rope jerking them along." Oh, that is so much better. Jerking the bumper off the car would be fine. I hung out the window, flailing my arms so the maniac New England drivers wouldn't smack into us like bumper cars at the amusement park as we went around the rotary.
We pulled in to the fire station and all the firemen came out and told us to move the car up just a little so they could get out if they got a call. Then they stood around and talked and examined the car while the Lori rearranged the Ferrari she already had in the car carrier and made room for the Buick. Because the Buick wasn't running, she had to use a come-along and the firemen and my brother and uncle and I all pushed the car up onto the rear gate of the truck and then up onto the carrier until she could reach it with the come-along.
The whole thing took about 2.5 hours, and then we left and came back in time to run three more loads to the dump.
Yikes.
I'm so tired I might go to be at 7pm.
Oh wait, the neighbor just came over with a blender and tequila.
July 22, 2009
We need boxes. More boxes. We are desperate. Dale and I scream out of the driveway and hit the Walmart, the Target, the Stop and Shop. They are still watering the outside plants and unlocking the doors, but we are too late. But hark. What store through yonder sunlight breaks? 'Tis the liquor store and that means boxes.
"Can we have some boxes?"
They glance down to see empty hands and scowl. Perhaps if we bought something...Dale and I scan the aisles and find a small bottle of rum. If they won't give us any boxes, we can sit out in the parking lot and get drunk because there will be no use going back to the house without boxes. We've already been to the dump, twice.
"You can take four boxes and that is all," the check out clerk admonishes.
Dale picked up her two. I picked up two, but inside the two was another. I clutched it to my chest and we ran, jumped into the car, revved the engine and burned rubber out of the lot. My heart was pounding and Dale checked the rear view mirror to see if they'd send the coppers after us to get the extra box back.
It was a small one, really. Probably only a misdemeanor.
I wondered if the rum would make it through the day unopened.
"Can we have some boxes?"
They glance down to see empty hands and scowl. Perhaps if we bought something...Dale and I scan the aisles and find a small bottle of rum. If they won't give us any boxes, we can sit out in the parking lot and get drunk because there will be no use going back to the house without boxes. We've already been to the dump, twice.
"You can take four boxes and that is all," the check out clerk admonishes.
Dale picked up her two. I picked up two, but inside the two was another. I clutched it to my chest and we ran, jumped into the car, revved the engine and burned rubber out of the lot. My heart was pounding and Dale checked the rear view mirror to see if they'd send the coppers after us to get the extra box back.
It was a small one, really. Probably only a misdemeanor.
I wondered if the rum would make it through the day unopened.
July 21, 2009
I am packing picture frames in my mother's office. There is a knock on the garage door. No one uses the front door in Massachusetts. They all go to the kitchen door. In this case, it is through the garage.
Mom lets in the fire inspector. He must test out the alarms before the house can close in nine days. He is about 40 years old, handsome as all firemen are, and a walkie-talkie mouthpiece clings to the lapel of his shirt. A little over a year ago, there was a fire in the basement. The ADT fire alarm automatically called the fire department and saved the entire house from burning. It has all been rebuilt with a completely new kitchen, appliances, basement, bathrooms, etc. When it was rebuilt, they installed state-of-the-art smoke detectors in addition to the ADT fire alarm and burglar alarm system. There are two audible alarms in every room. Overkill? Not if you have been saved by one a year ago.
Five more minutes and the fire would have reached the gas can and the case of oil. See the heat of the fire melted the gas spout and oil already started seeping out of the plastic containers.
The fire inspector asked my mother if she needed to call ADT before he set off the alarms for testing. She said they weren't hooked up. (?)
He has set off the alarms. Two of them are blaring in the room I'm in, but I'm continuing to pack. No time to lose. My mother cannot remember the code to punch in to shut off the alarm. The phone is ringing.
ADT
My mother can't remember the password to give them. "The fire department is here, testing the alarms because we are selling the house." They are unimpressed because she is not giving them the password. They will not give her the code to shut it off, either. They are calling the fire department.
I drop everything and trot out to the family room. My father and the fireman are staring at the alarm boxes as they blast out their warnings. "Excuse me, but ADT is calling the fire department."
He mutters a curse and tilts his head, pressing the microphone. "Fire inspector calling headquarters. We can't turn off the alarms. ADT is about to call you...oh, they are already on the phone? Well tell them I'm here and give me the dang code to turn off the alarms."
I go back in to the office and hunch my shoulders to block some of the sirens and bells while I pack another box. I'm so glad there are two alarms going off in each room.
The fireman storms into the office and picks up the phone. He calls ADT and yells at them, over the blaring warnings to evacuate, evacuate, evacuate. "Give me the code to shut these off," he begs.
It has been twenty minutes. I'm tempted to rip one off the ceiling and pack it. It is hard to write and even harder to think. I could go outside and bury my head in a pile awaiting the dump, but the mosquitoes are thick and large enough to rip off one of my limbs. I keep packing.
The fireman stomps past me and throws open the basement door. Between the spurts of blasting alarm I hear him slam down the stairs.
Blessed silence. He's shut off power to the alarm system.
It is difficult to write.
Mom lets in the fire inspector. He must test out the alarms before the house can close in nine days. He is about 40 years old, handsome as all firemen are, and a walkie-talkie mouthpiece clings to the lapel of his shirt. A little over a year ago, there was a fire in the basement. The ADT fire alarm automatically called the fire department and saved the entire house from burning. It has all been rebuilt with a completely new kitchen, appliances, basement, bathrooms, etc. When it was rebuilt, they installed state-of-the-art smoke detectors in addition to the ADT fire alarm and burglar alarm system. There are two audible alarms in every room. Overkill? Not if you have been saved by one a year ago.
Five more minutes and the fire would have reached the gas can and the case of oil. See the heat of the fire melted the gas spout and oil already started seeping out of the plastic containers.The fire inspector asked my mother if she needed to call ADT before he set off the alarms for testing. She said they weren't hooked up. (?)
He has set off the alarms. Two of them are blaring in the room I'm in, but I'm continuing to pack. No time to lose. My mother cannot remember the code to punch in to shut off the alarm. The phone is ringing.
ADT
My mother can't remember the password to give them. "The fire department is here, testing the alarms because we are selling the house." They are unimpressed because she is not giving them the password. They will not give her the code to shut it off, either. They are calling the fire department.
I drop everything and trot out to the family room. My father and the fireman are staring at the alarm boxes as they blast out their warnings. "Excuse me, but ADT is calling the fire department."
He mutters a curse and tilts his head, pressing the microphone. "Fire inspector calling headquarters. We can't turn off the alarms. ADT is about to call you...oh, they are already on the phone? Well tell them I'm here and give me the dang code to turn off the alarms."
I go back in to the office and hunch my shoulders to block some of the sirens and bells while I pack another box. I'm so glad there are two alarms going off in each room.
The fireman storms into the office and picks up the phone. He calls ADT and yells at them, over the blaring warnings to evacuate, evacuate, evacuate. "Give me the code to shut these off," he begs.
It has been twenty minutes. I'm tempted to rip one off the ceiling and pack it. It is hard to write and even harder to think. I could go outside and bury my head in a pile awaiting the dump, but the mosquitoes are thick and large enough to rip off one of my limbs. I keep packing.
The fireman stomps past me and throws open the basement door. Between the spurts of blasting alarm I hear him slam down the stairs.
Blessed silence. He's shut off power to the alarm system.
It is difficult to write.
July 20, 2009
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.
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.
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