Our Son Brad has been moving now for about a month. Moving
is a slow and deadly condition that usually results in overwhelm and always the
question, “Who’s idea was this?” Any romantic illusions that drove them to this
madness in the first place, (such as a lovely new home) have all been swept away in
the reality of picking up with their hands, every single thing that they own and
placing it into a box – a box or a Rubbermaid container which has to then be
opened and unpacked before this bad dream can end.
We have been following this saga, from a distance. Every
week we have called our son or our daughter in law.
“How’s it going?”
“Almost done, we have moved about a million boxes today.
Looks like nearly everything is packed up.”
Following week:
“How’s it going?”
“Almost done, we have moved about a million boxes today.
Looks like nearly everything is packed up.”
Following week:
“How’s it going?”
“Almost done, we have moved about a million boxes today.
Looks like nearly everything is packed up.”
About the only thing that changes is the tone and the
intensity of the desperation. We feel
horrible . . . but not horrible enough to fly down to St. George and help them out of their
purgatory . . . because it sounds like they are “Almost Done”.
And besides in about another month or two, their real house
will be finished and, like a recurring nightmare, this whole moving thing will start again. Maybe they will be able to streamline. Probably not.
Bob and I moved about ten times in six years. It wasn't fun. It was easier then when you could just throw everything into a half ton truck. Not anymore. I still like the adventure of moving though. Gypsy blood rules.
ReplyDeleteI wish I liked moving. I guess I am not a gypsy. But I do love roadtrips!
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