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.

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.

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.

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.

Wildlife Will Win

I live on the same block as the Wildlife family. We don't really get along. Most of the Wildlife cousins have accosted me in some manner or other, and they usually do so by coming onto my property.


This morning, they were out and about on my way to work. It made me very nervous. Not more than a quarter mile from my house a deer stepped out onto the edge of the road, challenging me. I hit the brakes and my new tires spun in the gravel and a cloud of dust billowed out behind me. I rolled down my windows and said, "Good morning, dear. Where are your friends?"

The deer sent me a hard glare and signaled to someone with her tail. I expected her homies to come out from behind all the vine maples and start butting my car with their velvet antlers. I swivelled my head around, looking up and down the street, staring into the woods. My palms sweated.

"Are you planning something? If I go, will one of your friends toss themselves on the road in front of me and claim I hit them?"

No answer.

I rolled forward, easing out the clutch, holding my breath as I moved past her. Her eyes narrowed and she ground her teeth. I pressed on the gas and made it around the corner and down to the end of the next road. There, her "look out", stood in the shadows of a fir tree, careful not to expose herself fully. I slowed and raked my eyes along the sides of the road and ambled past. They let me go.

When I got home from work, I fully expected my house to have been ransacked. And perhaps they tried, but they would have met up with Hobiecat and Schooner, who can be pretty ferocious feline predators. Maybe the deer gave up and left. Or maybe they were only casing the place for the future.

Pictures

My daughter, Kelly, also took pictures of me to send in to the contest, but the backdrop of grass and the ghastly shirt I was wearing kind of fought with my coloring according to my artist sister. In trying to crop the picture, my face took up the entire picture, much as an eye takes up the entire area when looking through a peephole in a door at an eye on the opposite side. I decided not to use that. Sometimes crop jobs just make things worse.

But, it probably wasn't all that bad to begin with. I want to post it here, for the practice of posting a picture.

Thanks to Kelly for taking the picture and to Dale for trying to crop out all the background and the shirt.

Creating a bio

This morning at Starbucks I met with Carol from my critique group. Not only is she writing a really interesting book, but she is probably the smartest computer person I know in Washington. My sister, Nina and her husband, Laurent, are the smartest ones in Oregon, but they are off paddling some winding river. Thankfully Carol is a generous woman because she did not hesitate when I sent out the cry for help. She helped me write my bio and took some pictures of me to send in to the contest. I chose a picture that kind of looks like a drivers license picture. I always think those are the most flattering of me.

My sister, Dale, is an artist and has to write Bios for her art shows. I had no idea how difficult it is. It is "tooting your own horn", something we are taught not to do as children.

And now I understand Dale's "what should I wear to the opening" anxiety, also. There is a lot of stress involved in such things.

Congratulations to Dale Blodget for her opening this week in Boston. And happy birthday.