My friend Roxy’s move got me thinking of some memorable moves I’ve made over the years.
My childhood had been spent in one house, the one my mother had grown up in. Our family had moved there when I was only a few months old. We were there to take care of Grandpa, who was lost after Grandma’s death.
Moving did not happen again until, as an about to be married person, I went apartment hunting.
I remember looking at an apartment shown to us by a frazzled female caretaker. Her own apartment featured a Dutch door, and she kept the top half open so she could keep track of several turbo tots while she showed us the apartment across the hall.
The apartment needed many repairs. The caretaker was unsure when those repairs would happen and when we could actually move in.
The second apartment we saw was quiet, clean, and available when we needed it. We signed on the dotted line.
Three days before the wedding was “take possession” day. Our moving crew consisted of the bride, groom, maid of honor, best man, his wife (who would soon be my sister in law) the mother of the bride, brother of the bride, and, in a curious turn of events, the paternal grandparents of the bride. Grandma had insisted on helping. Nobody turned down Grandma when she insisted. Ever.
We loaded a borrowed truck with my bedroom furniture, a bookcase Grandpa had built for me years earlier, my parent’s old kitchen table and chairs, gifts from several bridal showers and the wedding gifts that had been sent to the house.
It seemed to me like there were more people helping that we really needed, but, as a novice mover, I went with the flow.
We learned a few things the hard way. The best man was quickly dispatched down the street to purchase some ice for the soda we had brought and a roll of Charmin for after we drank our fill.
Grandma stationed herself in the little apartment kitchen. “Where is the shelf paper?” She demanded.
I looked at my mom. Mom raised her eyebrow. I know. Don’t question Grandma. (Mom had learned that early in her marriage.)
“I’ll know the box when I see it,” I offered.
Not good enough.
“Go down to the truck and get it.”
I did.
Furniture began to fill the bedroom and the dining area. Furniture had been purchased for the living room, but it would take another week before it was delivered.
“I need a pair of shears!” Grandma loudly announced. (Grandma never called them scissors.)
“Hopefully I’ll see them in the next box,” I ventured.
I take a break from this story to mention that, as a teenager, I had received a Twister game as a gift. It had remained, unopened.
For anyone who might not have had the pleasure of a Twister experience, two or more people are directed to place a part of their person on various colored circles. Eventually, those playing are twisted and bridged around each other in odd formation.
I had never played Twister. I couldn’t imagine ever playing Twister. I had thought of leaving it behind, but my mother, a girl of the great depression years, had urged me to keep it so my future children would have it.
And so it was, that as that Twister game arrived in the next box, Grandma grabbed it and yelled, “This is what I’ve been waiting for!”
The thought of Grandma playing Twister was too much. I retreated into the bathroom when I sat on the edge of the tub and tried to control my laughter.
Soon after that, my mother, being a wise woman, directed everyone out except for the maid of honor and me. We got the rest of the apartment put together quickly.
My childhood had been spent in one house, the one my mother had grown up in. Our family had moved there when I was only a few months old. We were there to take care of Grandpa, who was lost after Grandma’s death.
Moving did not happen again until, as an about to be married person, I went apartment hunting.
I remember looking at an apartment shown to us by a frazzled female caretaker. Her own apartment featured a Dutch door, and she kept the top half open so she could keep track of several turbo tots while she showed us the apartment across the hall.
The apartment needed many repairs. The caretaker was unsure when those repairs would happen and when we could actually move in.
The second apartment we saw was quiet, clean, and available when we needed it. We signed on the dotted line.
Three days before the wedding was “take possession” day. Our moving crew consisted of the bride, groom, maid of honor, best man, his wife (who would soon be my sister in law) the mother of the bride, brother of the bride, and, in a curious turn of events, the paternal grandparents of the bride. Grandma had insisted on helping. Nobody turned down Grandma when she insisted. Ever.
We loaded a borrowed truck with my bedroom furniture, a bookcase Grandpa had built for me years earlier, my parent’s old kitchen table and chairs, gifts from several bridal showers and the wedding gifts that had been sent to the house.
It seemed to me like there were more people helping that we really needed, but, as a novice mover, I went with the flow.
We learned a few things the hard way. The best man was quickly dispatched down the street to purchase some ice for the soda we had brought and a roll of Charmin for after we drank our fill.
Grandma stationed herself in the little apartment kitchen. “Where is the shelf paper?” She demanded.
I looked at my mom. Mom raised her eyebrow. I know. Don’t question Grandma. (Mom had learned that early in her marriage.)
“I’ll know the box when I see it,” I offered.
Not good enough.
“Go down to the truck and get it.”
I did.
Furniture began to fill the bedroom and the dining area. Furniture had been purchased for the living room, but it would take another week before it was delivered.
“I need a pair of shears!” Grandma loudly announced. (Grandma never called them scissors.)
“Hopefully I’ll see them in the next box,” I ventured.
I take a break from this story to mention that, as a teenager, I had received a Twister game as a gift. It had remained, unopened.
For anyone who might not have had the pleasure of a Twister experience, two or more people are directed to place a part of their person on various colored circles. Eventually, those playing are twisted and bridged around each other in odd formation.
I had never played Twister. I couldn’t imagine ever playing Twister. I had thought of leaving it behind, but my mother, a girl of the great depression years, had urged me to keep it so my future children would have it.
And so it was, that as that Twister game arrived in the next box, Grandma grabbed it and yelled, “This is what I’ve been waiting for!”
The thought of Grandma playing Twister was too much. I retreated into the bathroom when I sat on the edge of the tub and tried to control my laughter.
Soon after that, my mother, being a wise woman, directed everyone out except for the maid of honor and me. We got the rest of the apartment put together quickly.
I spent the remaining nights of my singleness with no bed (having already moved it to the apartment.) It did occur to me that sleeping on my parent’s sofa might just make me wake up feeling like I was playing Twister, but I never mentioned it to Grandma.
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