Moving On
Posted by Shelli Altopp Miller at 8/26/2008 8:14 AM 
Categories: Relationships, Shelli Altopp Miller
Tags: Family
Categories: Relationships, Shelli Altopp Miller
Tags: Family
Weeks of sorting, pitching, yard sales, freecycling, and trips to donation bins, then two days of rigorous packing culminated into this: Our furniture neatly lined the walls of our military quarters and a lifetime (at least our marriagetime) collection of necessary objects are tucked away inside mountains of boxes. Each box taped shut, it's contents and the room in which it belongs written on the outside.
On the third day, the moving company hauled it all out to the van. Our movers were amazing; the toothless older gentleman, the high school kid (son of the company owner), the Eastern European immigrant taking a break from veterinarian school to raise funds to complete his education, and the affable driver who wore fancy shoes and who has four daughters and several grandkids worked together seamlessly. They were like the Energizer Bunny, I marveled, they just kept going and going, lifting and hauling and coming back for more for hours on end.
On the fourth day, the house was empty and echo-y. My kids were at grandma and grandpa's and my husband and I had work to do: In order to pass inspection and be honorably discharged from base housing we had to prime all the walls we had painted and super-deep clean the entire house. We had two days to get 'er done. I've never had so many zits crop up in all my life - at least since I was 14. I sweat, and stunk, and was sore and grouchy and labile. In short, I drove my husband crazy.
On the sixth day, inspection day, I said, "Get out of this house and don't come back! And take the dog with you!" We had finished everything but mopping. Alone one last time in this house where we'd lived, where we raised our kids for 3 years, where memories were made, I lovingly stroked each floor til it shined. Three rooms produced little "gifts" for me: Under the radiator in my son's room I found a small Lego figure; the hall closet hid a tiny toy ball behind some molding and a wooden Kabuki sword had been missed during the packing tucked along the inside edge of my husband's closet. These were little stubborn signs of our family's life in this place. Then, I remembered one more sign: Over the years we had marked my kids' heights in pencil on the kitchen door frame. I couldn't bring myself to erase them the past few days, telling myself I'd save that for last. We were now down to the wire. The inspector would be here any minute. I ran outside crying to my husband and then an idea popped into my head. I rushed to a neighbor's house and borrowed some string and scissors. With the string, I measured the height marks on the door frame and cut the string to match each one. At our new house, I thought, I'll hold these up to the wall and mark my kids' past heights for memories' sake. Tucking the strings in my pocket, I ran to return the scissors and get a baby wipe to clean off the pencil marks. When I arrived back at our house, the inspector was there with my husband. I concealed the baby wipe and walked up to introduce myself. We went all through the house together, inspector commenting on the paint job and praising the cleanliness. We passed. She did not notice the pencil marks. I didn't bring it up nor try to sneak clean it. She took our keys and we were forever locked out, but scraps of our lives remain.
And on the seventh day...we drove, away from home and toward home.
On the third day, the moving company hauled it all out to the van. Our movers were amazing; the toothless older gentleman, the high school kid (son of the company owner), the Eastern European immigrant taking a break from veterinarian school to raise funds to complete his education, and the affable driver who wore fancy shoes and who has four daughters and several grandkids worked together seamlessly. They were like the Energizer Bunny, I marveled, they just kept going and going, lifting and hauling and coming back for more for hours on end.
On the fourth day, the house was empty and echo-y. My kids were at grandma and grandpa's and my husband and I had work to do: In order to pass inspection and be honorably discharged from base housing we had to prime all the walls we had painted and super-deep clean the entire house. We had two days to get 'er done. I've never had so many zits crop up in all my life - at least since I was 14. I sweat, and stunk, and was sore and grouchy and labile. In short, I drove my husband crazy.
On the sixth day, inspection day, I said, "Get out of this house and don't come back! And take the dog with you!" We had finished everything but mopping. Alone one last time in this house where we'd lived, where we raised our kids for 3 years, where memories were made, I lovingly stroked each floor til it shined. Three rooms produced little "gifts" for me: Under the radiator in my son's room I found a small Lego figure; the hall closet hid a tiny toy ball behind some molding and a wooden Kabuki sword had been missed during the packing tucked along the inside edge of my husband's closet. These were little stubborn signs of our family's life in this place. Then, I remembered one more sign: Over the years we had marked my kids' heights in pencil on the kitchen door frame. I couldn't bring myself to erase them the past few days, telling myself I'd save that for last. We were now down to the wire. The inspector would be here any minute. I ran outside crying to my husband and then an idea popped into my head. I rushed to a neighbor's house and borrowed some string and scissors. With the string, I measured the height marks on the door frame and cut the string to match each one. At our new house, I thought, I'll hold these up to the wall and mark my kids' past heights for memories' sake. Tucking the strings in my pocket, I ran to return the scissors and get a baby wipe to clean off the pencil marks. When I arrived back at our house, the inspector was there with my husband. I concealed the baby wipe and walked up to introduce myself. We went all through the house together, inspector commenting on the paint job and praising the cleanliness. We passed. She did not notice the pencil marks. I didn't bring it up nor try to sneak clean it. She took our keys and we were forever locked out, but scraps of our lives remain.
And on the seventh day...we drove, away from home and toward home.
Ah, all is well again -- Shelli is settling in in her new home, and settling back in at her old home, everyotherminute! We missed you. Good luck with all your new experiences. We'll be looking forward to hearing about them!
Beverly
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