Failing Moving 101

On the day of our move from Dallas, the foreman proclaims we are not ready. I beg to differ. I am more than ready to leave the 90-degree steam bath. But he means that we have about a day of packing left before he can load us on the truck. In essence, we have failed Moving 101.

I wonder if this has some kind of underlying meaning. I mean, who isn’t ready when the movers show up? Is this some kind of cosmic hint that the move isn’t right? Another thing to keep me up at night. That and all the packing I still have left to do.

The next day the movers – a new crew including our driver, Stanley, another guy and a character named Frenchy who mumbles when he talks so it’s hard to understand him – show up and this time we were ready. Six hours and 83 boxes later the truck is full – unfortunately too full to make the stop downtown to pick up our office load. Another call, another truck, another kink in the plan. As I leave our house for good, the new owner is walking in with items as I’m walking out with mine.

We collapse at my mother’s house in Plano. I need my mommy after the two-week grind of paring down 2,500 square feet of possessions to squeeze into 1,400. Not to mention dogs and children who just don’t understand why you can’t take them on their usual long walks and jaunts to the dollar store while cramming six years of collected Happy Meal toys into boxes (and trash bags). I fall asleep sitting up. Dana eats dinner at 11 p.m. But it’s over. On one end, at least.

The next day we set out for Amarillo not nearly as bright and early as my father would have done it. I remember those car trips of my childhood when he would be walking around in the dark house, tapping his Timex and barking, “we’re nine minutes behind schedule!” But we are going to a hotel room where we will be sleeping with both kids and dogs. What’s the big hurry? We make good time, eat Wendy’s poolside at the La Quinta and pass out early watching “Home on the Range”.

Our last day of driving goes quickly and uneventfully with the exception of the portion of I-25 that passes through Trinidad, Colorado just north of the New Mexico border. With a history of panic issues related to driving (before the miracle of modern medicine) it is a tad unnerving when my Mitsubishi Gallant starts bucking on a near vertical climb. But once we clear that hurdle it’s smooth sailing. I crank the White Stripes and my sole passenger, Henry, our two-year old lab who is wearing sunglasses, and I lean forward, trying to gain speed.