Movin' on up...
4, 8, 10, 10 1/2, 15, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 26, 27, 29
These numbers could possibly be measurements of various parts of my body (hey, I did say possibly) or they could be the ages I happened to be the many times I have moved from point A to point B to point C...well, you get the point. These numbers aren't really meant to impress, except that the first 5 ages all happened to be moves to other countries and/or states (military brat years), which, I find, always manages to impress me. How did my parents stay married?!
My last "family move" was when I was 15. Dad ended up retiring so that meant we were going to stay put for awhile. I moved out on my own when I was 19 and when I became engaged to Robbie I moved back home until our wedding a year later. After that it was moving simply because I could a) find a better apartment or b) buy a house...both terrific reasons to move. When I was 26 we moved to Kansas City, which required the sale of our home, leaving family and learning how to be self sufficient, self-reliant and Robbie-reliant....without parents to run to when the going got rough. I can honestly say it's been the best move so far...and at times the worst.
My parents left their childhood homes at 18 and 20 respectfully. Mom and Dad moved because it was their livelihood and I guess if Dad had said, "Orders? Again? Really?" well, he may not have made it to retirement age in the military. My brother and I were along for the ride and what a ride it was.
Except for the initial move to North Dak0ta ('cause all Mom had was an idea that she wanted a Catie Jo at the time) I was there for all the other moves my parents experienced. I remember when the big moving trucks would pull up and I am sure I harassed the movers with questions and offerings to "help." In all those years my parents moved themselves only one time...and I was certainly old enough to remember it. I remember it so well that now when we move it is never a question of "Will we hire movers?" but "What time shall we have the movers arrive?" I don't care how broke I am, there is always money to hire wonderfully strong people to move my pencil collection, books and heavy as heck Fiesta Ware.
Tomorrow my parents will make one more move. The movers will arrive and take away their things. Mom has been diligently cleaning and laying shelf liner (an extremely useful talent I've picked up along the way) and preparing her new home for all of her old stuff. I am certain Dad has spent time carefully packing up his precious power tools while mentally planning how he can most appropriately store them in his big red barn. I've been there for every move, except this one and this is one of those times when the brilliant idea of moving out of state suddenly seems less brilliant, not as sparkly, downright sad.
My parents have helped me move every single time I have ever moved. They carefully packed my baby dolls when I was a little girl and then carefully unpacked them for me when I explained (loudly I am sure) that they would suffocate in those boxes and would absolutely have to ride with me in the car to Louisiana, yes, all five of them. They proudly helped me move into my very first apartment when I was 19. Dad checked the locks and Mom made the bed and they both reminded me I could come "home" anytime I wanted. So, when the big engagement was announced I also announced how much I hated living alone and they moved me back in with them for the year before I became a wife. Robbie moved to Kansas City three months before I was finally able to join him. My parents helped me prepare our home for selling and even helped with the expense of moving our belongings to Kansas City. Mom drove me to Kansas City after our home sold and she helped line the kitchen cabinets with liners and clean the bathrooms, all important moving-in rituals. Robbie and I have moved three times since coming to KC and each time Mom and/or Dad were there to help out. Always. There.
It only seems right that I try, in some small, feeble way, to return the favor, and I can't. I won't get to help Mom unpack the kitchen (the first must-do on any mover's list) or help Dad categorically place his precious album collection in the t.v. cabinet (Dad's must-do on his mover's list) and I am finding myself incredibly disappointed.
Moving is a kind of new beginning, an opportunity to discover new plans and dreams. This move is a big one for Mom and Dad, it's the "Farm" they've been discussing with me over coffee for the last couple of years. It's a big move and I am missing it.
I suppose there are moments in life we are simply not meant to experience. I can think of a few more we've missed since moving to Kansas City and now this one is added to the list. As sad as I am not to be a helping hand to my parents , I realize they know that if I could be there I would be, in a heartbeat. And, really, I am there...at least in spirit and in prayerful thought. Also, I am pretty sure Mom had to pack those baby dolls mentioned earlier, because storing them in the attic was never an option.
My last "family move" was when I was 15. Dad ended up retiring so that meant we were going to stay put for awhile. I moved out on my own when I was 19 and when I became engaged to Robbie I moved back home until our wedding a year later. After that it was moving simply because I could a) find a better apartment or b) buy a house...both terrific reasons to move. When I was 26 we moved to Kansas City, which required the sale of our home, leaving family and learning how to be self sufficient, self-reliant and Robbie-reliant....without parents to run to when the going got rough. I can honestly say it's been the best move so far...and at times the worst.
My parents left their childhood homes at 18 and 20 respectfully. Mom and Dad moved because it was their livelihood and I guess if Dad had said, "Orders? Again? Really?" well, he may not have made it to retirement age in the military. My brother and I were along for the ride and what a ride it was.
Except for the initial move to North Dak0ta ('cause all Mom had was an idea that she wanted a Catie Jo at the time) I was there for all the other moves my parents experienced. I remember when the big moving trucks would pull up and I am sure I harassed the movers with questions and offerings to "help." In all those years my parents moved themselves only one time...and I was certainly old enough to remember it. I remember it so well that now when we move it is never a question of "Will we hire movers?" but "What time shall we have the movers arrive?" I don't care how broke I am, there is always money to hire wonderfully strong people to move my pencil collection, books and heavy as heck Fiesta Ware.
Tomorrow my parents will make one more move. The movers will arrive and take away their things. Mom has been diligently cleaning and laying shelf liner (an extremely useful talent I've picked up along the way) and preparing her new home for all of her old stuff. I am certain Dad has spent time carefully packing up his precious power tools while mentally planning how he can most appropriately store them in his big red barn. I've been there for every move, except this one and this is one of those times when the brilliant idea of moving out of state suddenly seems less brilliant, not as sparkly, downright sad.
My parents have helped me move every single time I have ever moved. They carefully packed my baby dolls when I was a little girl and then carefully unpacked them for me when I explained (loudly I am sure) that they would suffocate in those boxes and would absolutely have to ride with me in the car to Louisiana, yes, all five of them. They proudly helped me move into my very first apartment when I was 19. Dad checked the locks and Mom made the bed and they both reminded me I could come "home" anytime I wanted. So, when the big engagement was announced I also announced how much I hated living alone and they moved me back in with them for the year before I became a wife. Robbie moved to Kansas City three months before I was finally able to join him. My parents helped me prepare our home for selling and even helped with the expense of moving our belongings to Kansas City. Mom drove me to Kansas City after our home sold and she helped line the kitchen cabinets with liners and clean the bathrooms, all important moving-in rituals. Robbie and I have moved three times since coming to KC and each time Mom and/or Dad were there to help out. Always. There.
It only seems right that I try, in some small, feeble way, to return the favor, and I can't. I won't get to help Mom unpack the kitchen (the first must-do on any mover's list) or help Dad categorically place his precious album collection in the t.v. cabinet (Dad's must-do on his mover's list) and I am finding myself incredibly disappointed.
Moving is a kind of new beginning, an opportunity to discover new plans and dreams. This move is a big one for Mom and Dad, it's the "Farm" they've been discussing with me over coffee for the last couple of years. It's a big move and I am missing it.
I suppose there are moments in life we are simply not meant to experience. I can think of a few more we've missed since moving to Kansas City and now this one is added to the list. As sad as I am not to be a helping hand to my parents , I realize they know that if I could be there I would be, in a heartbeat. And, really, I am there...at least in spirit and in prayerful thought. Also, I am pretty sure Mom had to pack those baby dolls mentioned earlier, because storing them in the attic was never an option.
Comments
Satchmo gave us a sleepless night last night. It is very quiet on the farm, so any little noise is very loud. I am sure he will settle in a couple of days.
Love you, Mom