When I last talked about my parent's home I mentioned plans to have a last dinner together there with the family. If nothing else it was a very touching thought, as was my obsessive desire to have a final game of catch there with my Dad. Neither one took place.
As the 31st arrived I issued repeated but polite warnings that the move would be difficult. The family had been in the house for 50+ years and the last time my parents had moved was 30 years ago; my sister K had never moved. In contrast I'd moved four times in my first three years on my own, and another two times since then.
"We helped you move," they'd say to refute their lack of experience.As I'm sure you know, that's like saying you know what it's like to have kids because you used to babysit. 'tis not the same thing at all.
Come the 31st both my Dad and I had to work until 2pm, leading to a late start on the day. It was not until 3 that my Dad returned with a rented truck and the fun began.
Lisa loaded up our van repeatedly and took my sister C's items to her apartment, while my nephew and I unloaded an entire truck of furniture to my parent's new place after my Dad showed signs of fatigue. In the process I tore my shorts from belt to hem and was forced to ask passerby's for a safety pin. Finding help lacking, I tied an electrical cord around my leg to hold the garment together - at least until I felt the circulation stop ;)
By evening we were well behind schedule and more and more items appeared from corners unseen for years. This final truckload, compiled mainly of my sister K's items, was destined for storage. It was a decision I argued against (in my mind, paid storage is for the rich or the fool, and no one in between. It seems a worthless sap of resources best spent in the present)
My sister K quit on us early, saying an old injury was acting up. Instead she spent the night directing our efforts. Several times I good naturedly ribbed her about it, because I think the work just overwhelmed her, but to both our credit it did stay good natured, against our traditional yin and yang relationship.
On the other hand my meek and conciliatory sister C went off on me in a foul mouthed tirade. It was worth it for the entertainment value, like seeing a shy person sing karaoke when they're drunk. Priceless.
By ten o'clock I felt it was time to get my Mom moved to the new apartment and so began planning our exit. My sister C asked if I thought they could get more time from the new owners to finish the job. I shook my head. "This place is ours for two more hours only," I said. "When that clock strikes midnight, it's over."
Near the end my Dad pulled me aside and told me to take whatever tools I wanted. These were items handed down from my Great-Grandfather's on both sides. My Dad had hung onto them zealously, and I find it hard to put into words the emotions that ran through me when he made that offer. It was . . well, it felt like the most sincere 'Love you' I'd heard from him in a long time.
[not that we don't have a good relationship, but most days the man talks less than Smiley]
When I was in the attic a wave of nostaligia took over me. I remembered cleaning the attic with my Dad one night, the radio barking out the play by play of a Big Mac at-bat at the All-Star game. I looked around and realized the new owners had had the roof redone; the wood I was looking at would no doubt stick around for decades to come.
So I left my mark behind.
I began to take my Mother out of the house. "Say goodbye to the house Mom," I said.
"Goodbye house," she said, and I cracked up.
"What?" she said smiling.
"Nothing, nothing. I just didn't expect you to be so literal," I said.
I got her in my van and went back for something or another. My last sight of the house (in our family's possesion) was of a brightly lit downstairs and my Dad sitting on the concrete steps outside.
And then I got in my van and drove away.
