Moving Day

I wish I could capture the warm happy of my living room at this moment. I tried taking a picture and it failed miserably. I can attempt to paint a picture with words:

The lights are off. The only light is from the large, west facing window and the smaller north facing window to it's right. No curtains cover these windows because I hope to make the curtains myself and have yet to purchase fabric and rods to hang said un-purchased fabric on. Rain is falling steadily outside and I can see it as well as hear it through the open windows. Because there is no added interior light, the only light is from the outside, the sun dimmed to gray by the rain clouds, cast through the verdant, fully developed leaves of the maple tree just outside our window. The light filling the room holds an overall a quiet green gray quality, and the softness of the rain seems to pervade it all. There are piles of clean laundry on the love seat and ottoman waiting to be sorted, and a somewhat chaotic line of boxes and miscellaneous bags, crates, and pictures frames wrapped in towels lining the wall. And yet, at this moment, this room feels very much like a sanctuary, the very thing I always hoped it would be. The vision of this sanctuary was only thing that kept  me going on those long days and nights of ripping out fireplaces, trying to hold lasers steady to make straight chalk lines for can lighting, stripping pigment out of moulding, and attempting to apply plaster to rebuild the walls as though my life depended upon it.

So, we're home. 8am on a Sunday on a holiday weekend seemed like a crazy time to move but it was available so I took it. I woke up before my alarm at 6 am, in a mild panic because I realized I hadn't gone to our alderman to get "no parking" signs for our street. Where on earth would they park their 24' moving truck? Our neighbor customarily parks in front of their house, and there was an open spot behind that. So I went to our garage and moved our car into that spot. I then waited until 8 am to text our neighbor, asking to please not move the car! And would she be around when I did need it moved. She said they were off to breakfast but would leave the key. And she did, and it worked perfectly, with me arriving just ahead of the truck, moving the two cars, and opening up a more than adequate space.

3 guys and a truck showed up at our 3 flat apt to move the last 3 years of our life out of one place and into our new place. The personalities of the 3 were hilarious. There was the obvious leader of the crew who seemed like a long-suffering father watching over two rascally kids. Then there was the skinny tattooed hipster guy, who obviously knew everything about everything,
from bands, to beer to WWII, and he had to tell you about ALL of it. And lastly there was the  quiet, unassuming one, who patiently listened to hipster boy's incessant chatter. There was actually a 4th who showed up to help for about an hour, missing teeth and overweight, but cheerful and hardworking. It was incredible to watch them strap our belongings to their backs and carry them down the stairs. It made me wonder how on earth my husband I moved into that place without a crew. At one point the talkative one mentioned how he was going to play up his grandfather's WWII heroism the next day, hoping to play up a good tip. Tipping movers? Where I come from there aren't movers to hire, and even if there were you wouldn't because you are proud and you are German and you can do it yourself. And if you did need help you would ask one of your 47 cousins. So while our movers continued to move boxes, I covertly and frantically Googled, "How to tip movers..." Well played, jabber jaws. Sadly, if he hadn't said anything I don't think it ever would  have occurred to me to tip.

It took 5 hours, which was longer than I had hoped since I was paying them by the hour, but it was such a relief to realize it was done. Now there are boxes everywhere. I found my first broken bowl today. Hopefully one of few casualties of the trip. My co-worker said today, "You must have been just itching to unpack those boxes." No. Most certainly I wasn't. I haven't touched one of them. Except when forced to by necessity at 12:30 AM last night when my husband needed something desperately and it was a treasure hunt to see if we could find it. We had all but despaired when I said, "Look in that box." It was a box that held things like a can of Pringles and a curling iron. The very last box to be packed, of miscellaneous but important things (you know, like Pringles). And miraculously we found it. Hopefully my labeling skills and photographic memory will continue to save the day going forward.

My father-in-law stayed with us the night after we moved in. God bless him, he used a box of plates that rested on a rack in the kitchen as a desk for his belongings, and a side bench that is meant for the entry way but hasn't been moved yet as a suitcase stand. There is a perilously stacked pile of boxes at the foot of the bed in the "guest room." Next to the bed is a 3 tier rolling tray with a printer on top and heaven knows what all else covering every last square inch of the other two trays. I cleared a big enough space on the second tray for a place to set his cell phone at least. There was a large Zenith television left behind by the previous owner next to the bed as well, but I moved it last night to make it feel a little less like sleeping in a storage room.  Thankfully, not being fussy runs in the family.

Our home is in an odd state of in-between. So much work has been done but there is so much more to be done. I'll unpack most things but I am sure there are others that will stay packed for months or more.  But we're home. And it's crazy. And it's wonderful.


  1. Congratulations on the move! And I know what you mean about tipping - never know quite how much for stuff like that.


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