Road Trip Part I

 

This time last week me and the family were somewhere in West Virginia – or maybe it was southern PA – or maybe it was that little northwest sliver of Maryland – heading south on our 1,550 mile trip to Dallas.

Allow me to back up a bit. Last Tuesday, the 13th, was one of the most hectic days of my life. Right up there with the wedding, the births of my children, that first time my band played Bogota Day back in ’90 – you get my drift. It was the day we closed on our house of 17 years and had to get the heck out. It was overcast, hot, and humid, the downstairs had no air conditioning, the house was a jumble of over 50 fairly hefty boxes, beds, dressers, desks, a dining room set, an armoire, a washer, a dryer – again, I’m sure you get the drift.

Anyway, I woke at 6 am to do some last-minute packing and bring up 180 pounds of newly discovered weights stashed away in the furnace room out to the garage. The wife was soon up, as were the not-so-little Little Ones, stalking around angrily on the prowl for carbs for their growing, growling teenage bodies. The movers showed up nearly two hours late – all two of them. How were they to transfer all my family’s life’s possessions into that big moving truck in four hours? The new buyers were scheduled to arrive for a walkthrough at 1 pm.

Well, it all happened. The girls took the dog on the longest walk of his short life, and the Mrs. and I swept, vacuumed, and cleaned as the movers cleared out the rooms, one by one. My aunt stopped by with a (Texas) housewarming gift, and after that, our real estate agent showed up to see how the move was going. Turns out the buyers would be delayed, showing up around 3, so we had a little cushion of time.

We hit a wall when the movers realized they couldn’t maneuver our box spring down the narrow stairs. What??? It was true – then I remembered. To make the house saleable, we had to have the door from our master bedroom to the flat roof garage sealed off. That was the path we had taken with the box spring back in 2004. My buddy and I had tied it snugly and hauled it up onto the garage roof, then into the bedroom. That option was no longer available, so I had to … saw the box spring apart so we could put it out to the curb.

Then the same thing happened with my daughter’s headboard bed set. It wouldn’t fit down the stairs. This I remembered to be a piece of Ikea furniture I had assembled when she moved out of her toddler room when her sister was born, back in 2008. Unable to see a quick and easy way to take it apart, it too fell victim to the saw. Of course, as we’re bringing it out to the curb piecemeal, the garbage truck was already down the street. The wife ran down the street waving her arms frantically, and a $20 bill enticed them to back up and take away the newly discarded furniture.

Last minute runs to get lunch, some Gatorade for the movers, drop off some bottles and cans at the recycling center and locate the girls and the dog. The clock kept ticking. 3 o’clock arrived, but no buyers, which was good as the movers had only now started emptying the garage. The wife and I did some last minute cleaning and the realtor called to say the walk-through would happen the next morning and we were not required to be there.

Finally, around 4:30, the old homestead was emptied out, our life packed away with a few inches to spare in the movers’ box truck. My neighbor came out and we said a few words of farewell. Then the truck pulled out of the driveway, with us following. Unfortunately, we’d be hitting one of the busiest intersections in the northeast during rush hour.

But never mind, I was driving, in no particular rush, beginning a twenty-four hour voyage to a new home in a new land. It was a weird feeling – part optimistic and excited, part nervous and uncertain, part trusting, part nail-biting, part chomping at the bit to prove myself as a man, a husband, and a father, part a little worried how my not-so-little Little Ones would adjust to the move.