The Unexpected Mover - Part III

Moving a household is a glimpse into a man's world.  Military wives are very familiar with the prepping drill but the lifting and loading and then unloading is strictly a man's job.  The conversations are colorful and pungent; no swearing, well, not much anyway, but the stories and observations are the glue that makes the work easy and fast. Teamwork at its best.

Thursday night, we gave up hope of finishing the move in one day.  We booked a room at Days Inn, and left to sleep. NOT.  I didn't sleep, and Don barely slept. Work commenced at 7 a.m. Friday morning, and we were still at it at 2:43 p.m.

We finally depart, much to the relief of our buyers, and arrived at our daughter's home before dark.

After a painful and exhausting two days, the unload commenced early Saturday morning.  The house is packed and moving around is a challenge.  Sunday, we slept and rested; we were tired to the point of illness. 

End of Part III

The Unexpected Move - Part II

I read a little piece recently that addressed the question, "What do I Like to Do?".  I can most readily answer that question by telling you what I DON'T  like to do.  I don't like moving.  But here I am, moving again, at 77 years of age.

At an age when people are downsizing, we are packing again. No one died. Our financial circumstances haven't changed. Health isn't an issue. We have chosen to move because there is simply no compelling reason to stay.  We have no family here, no relationships rooted in decades of time, solidified through work, school, church connections, or child-rearing.  Yes, we have friends here with treasured routines in place but the roots are shallow and as we discovered, early last year, easily disrupted and torn apart.

One of the things I've learned, in my eight years here, is that friendship is layered.  In a small community, the passage of time, for long residing residents, creates deep roots with one strong, nourishing tap root.  There isn't much room for groups to expand.  Like an extended family, these communal friendships have shared stories that provide the glue for its continuity. We share none of these experience that bind us to the community. There will be people we will miss and, in fact, already do miss.  But our children are in Indiana and Tennessee. And, of even greater importance, our grandchildren are in Tennessee.  The almost 3 hour drive to visit them becomes more tiring as we age and the time between visits becomes longer.  So, it was time to move; time to reinvent our life just one more time. 

The Unexpected Move - Part I

 In 2017, we moved from California to the southeastern corner of Missouri known as The Bootheel.  In a state regarded as a split state during the Civil War, this little bit of Missouri hangs below the Mason-Dixon Line much like a Florida dangling chad. And, it's the only part of Missouri that is uniquely Southern. Otherwise, all other parts of the state consider itself Midwestern.

That move produced a book, A California Girl Meets the Bootheel in 2019.  Having lived my entire life in California, settling in the Bootheel was more or less like landing on Pluto. Writing this series of newspaper stories, over a period of 18 months, went a long way towards introducing me to the community and helped me adjust to a new way of life.

Now, at 77 years of age, I am doing the unthinkable. With my husband leading the way, I am moving  -  again.  In a long life, marked by many moves, this isn't one I saw coming.  When it arrived, the very idea ran through our life like a run-away freight train.  Everything changed.

In the spring of 2024, our settled life changed with such sudden rapidity, it took me the rest of the year just to adjust to the idea.  Then I found myself sliding into regret but there was no getting off this speeding train. And then, just like that, our house was listed and sold.  Now we are signing to sell our home on July 15th.  We are signing to buy our Tennessee house on July 16th.  The movers arrive on the 17th and we are out of here.  The whole thing has left me gasping.

End of Part I