I don't imagine anyone has ever described the moving process as being a pleasant one. Really, who wants to pack up all of their worldly possessions into boxes and trucks, haul them from point A to point B, only to unpack, wash and strategically place them again. Every time I move, I swear its going to be the last time.
One of the greatest pains of moving, unless you are smart and hire people to do it for you, is rounding up your friends and enlisting their help on moving day. If this were an easy task, there would be no need for bumper stickers that read, "yes this is my truck. no i won't help you move."
I tend to leave the friend wrangling to my husband. He has a multitude of friends with trucks, trailers, and muscles. Let's face it, my girlfriends have none of these things. We'd probably end up at the bottom of several wine bottles with broken belongings and no progress being made if it were left up to my girls. BUT my girls would be there.
Come moving day, it looked as though Dan and I would be doing all of the heavy lifting ourselves.We had already taken all the boxes of light stuff to the house the previous day and worked my poor pubescent nephews like borrowed mules. All that was left was the big bulky stuff. AND no one was there to help us.
I'll spare you the whining, and extend my thanks to Dan's buddy Ben who showed up and did the brunt of the work. My girl Brooke and her hubby Grant also came to our rescue late in the day. There were others who were prepared to help unload (thanks Shelby and Brenda!), but poor communication had them at our new house hours before we were there.
FINALLY, at 4:30PM we arrived at the farm. (Only about 3 hours after when I had hoped to be there). At that point, it seemed that all hell broke loose. My mom, aunt, grandmother and cousin arrived for the grand tour. Brooke was settling her kids in so that she could help unpack the kitchen. Ben was frantically trying to get back to Rockford for a previous engagement. Buster and Bella (our adorable if someone naughty boxers) were romping through the yard exploring their new digs. The stress of the day began to get to all of us.
Dan got snippy that I was giving tours rather than helping Ben get his truck unloaded so he could go back to town. Not wanting the dogs to make a break for it across the countryside, I locked them in the basement and got to work. Within minutes, Bella was following me through the back door and out into the winter night. I was perplexed by her presence, but didn't give it too much thought. With so many people in the house, I figured someone had let her out of the basement.
On my next trip in, Brooke asked if I knew the moving van (a 36 foot box van borrowed from Dan's cousin) didn't have reverse. I assured her it did, I had seen it back up the driveway of the old house myself earlier in the day. "Oh" she said, "I must have misunderstood what Grant was saying."
As I turned to leave, someone pointed out that there was blood on the floor. The only logical explanation was Bella. Knowing that she wasn't in heat, I picked up her front paw to check the pads. As I did so, blood poured across my hand as a four inch long cut opened up along her forearm. I quickly put together Ms. Houdini's escape from the basement. One pane of glass was missing from the basement door and Bella had pulled herself through this square finding a shard of glass along the way. She had torn open her leg from the elbow down. Someone handed me a wad of paper towels as my aunt went off in search of the first aid kit (thank goodness it had been unpacked on the first trip to the house). We quickly decided this was bad enough to warrant stitches and after wrapping her leg in neosporin soaked paper towels and an ace bandage, she and I were off to the emergency vet clinic half an hour away.
While the women folk were dealing with the Doggie Drama in the kitchen, the men folk were puzzling over the moving van. Brooke had, indeed, understood Grant correctly. The moving van would not go into reverse. In an attempt to "sweet talk" it, Dan eased into first, pulled forward a bit, and attempted reverse again. This time the gear shift stuck between first and reverse. It would limp forward a bit, but backing up was impossible. They quickly determined that the transmission had gone out. Furniture would have to be hauled across the drive and the front yard to get it into the house. There was no way to back into the drive. A long night lay in store for those who were unloading.
Did I mention on top of all this, I had agreed to host a family dinner for 12 people the following day? We ate carry out.
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