March 20, 2019 – Trees down – and new gardens to plan

         Every seven years in a garden, you have to re-adjust, cut out, expand or contract shrubs, trees or flowerbeds.  Every few years I have re-done many of the gardens.

         This year I am on year twenty-one [21] in my garden at this home and it is serious eradicate and restructure for my retirement gardens that I expect will take me another 20 or so years. Aren’t I optimistic?

         Today I had seven trees taken down that should have been taken down a few years ago, but I just now got around to it.  It has opened up entirely new garden areas with new possibilities.

         The Leyland semi-circle of seven three-foot specimens I planted 21 years ago were gorgeous for many years. They quickly grew from three feet to 30 feet to even taller. But, a few years ago we had an ice storm and one fell on top of another causing two to genuflect from the heavy ice and snow.  The tippy tops landed on the side of my house – with no damage.

         But, they were so massive my husband and I couldn’t handle cutting them down ourselves as they were 30 plus feet tall.  I had a man and his son cut them down and haul them off.  It took two flatbed trips to remove the limbs and trunks.  Of course, they were the two trees in the middle that left a “lost tooth” effect in my ‘privacy’ screen of evergreen. 

         There were two on the east and three on the west and a gap in the middle I suffered with for several years.  My husband wanted to “save” the rest of them, which were now moth eaten by bagworms.  As this sad sight has been a burr under my saddle, I made the decision to cut them down without my husband’s input.

Photo of "And Then There Was One . . ." - the last one taken down:

         This year, the first tree taken down was a large Leyland at the front north corner of the house.  I was mistaken twenty years ago when I planted it twelve feet from the foundation – as it was still not enough space and it towered over my home for 20 years until a few months ago.  In that time, it had split into three trunks in the end and one of the three trunks decided to rest its branches on my roof during the last ice storm.

         During the height of the ice storm, I could hear the icy sleet and wind as its limbs were swishing on my metal room.  I honestly expected to have a tree in my bed by my morning.  I had someone cut it down about a month ago.  That someone was supposed to come back and remove the ragged stump, do some raking and re-seed the lawn.  Today I had the new tree man take out the ragged stump.  I already did the raking and I have been working on the re-seeding and patching the ruts in the lawn he created with his heavy equipment.

         As they say in the South – I will have a prayer meeting with the first tree man when I catch up with him on work not done completely and what he has to do to re-pay me for his laxness.  I doubt that will go in my favor – but I will at least try it.  That too, is optimistic – now isn’t it?

         But, the big tree at the front of the house – which caused a circle 30 feet in diameter is now full sun and open to endless possibilities of replanting.  I’ve sketched out at least three versions with a wish list of plants.  I still haven’t decided what I am going to do completely, but I will move the giant pot to the stump and plant the new Wave petunias to cascade out of that pot this year and figure out what I want to do as the spring garden centers present me with possibilities. [I promise a blog on what I eventually do.]

         That area is full sun and it screams for color.  The soil has been shaded and mulched for two decades – so it should be easy to accomplish something spectacular.

         As for the Leyland semi-circle, which is, no longer in existence, except for the soft earth overlaying years of detritus [organic matter produced by fallen leaves and mulch] I have something special planned.  

         I’ve a pair of 6 x 8 foot greenhouses in my shed  - still in the cartons. I purchased them last fall waiting for me to have the trees cut down and put in foundations.  Then I will be ready to put them together.

         Talk about trying to be a superwoman . . . yeah, I hear you.  But, I’ve dreamed of a greenhouse all my gardening life and now, in my retirement – I will have something new to play with.

         One of the last two trees was a persimmon tree that just loved to drop fruit on my pathway from the patio and stepping on its fallen fruit walking the dog or rushing out to feed the birds was hazardous to my health.  I slipped and fell on my butt one too many times and vowed I would cut the tree down.  It is now gone and I am delighted I won’t slip and break my neck on fallen persimmon fruit again.

         The last of the trees was one that was at the end of the driveway and it was getting to the age where it was dropping dead limbs as thick as a man’s arm on our automobiles.  Before I needed to buy a new windshield, I decided it was best to cut the tree down and that creates the beginning of the permeable driveway.

         Yes, another “super woman” project. I am going to pave it with permeable cobblestones. Hold onto your seat – I plan to lay the pavers myself.  It will be a DIY project, and I actually have someone lined up to help me on the excavation of the crushed stone driveway to the right depth in order to begin that project.

         I will be taking pictures and blogging about that project – as it is a massive undertaking.

         I must say – much was accomplished on this first day of Spring.

Good gardening to you!

        

March 17, 2019 – Happy St. Patrick’s Day everyone

         I consider St. Patrick’s Day one of those perfect holidays – a day to enjoy.  Wear a bit of green, kiss anyone who is Irish [or isn’t for that matter] and imagine you have found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow – at least once in your lifetime. 

         The last bit, finding rainbows and pots of gold, or better yet, seeing leprechauns works better after a few Irish coffees that may increase your imagination.

         I am stealing – yes stealing an Irish Joke from The Daily Courier.  Tom Purcell was nice enough to tell one  in a recent column and it is as follows:

            A German spy sent to Ireland during World War II is instructed to meet an Irish spy named Murphy and confirm Murphy’s identity by saying,

            “The weather could change by Tuesday.”

            After the German parachutes into Ireland, he sets off for town.  Along the way, he asks a farmer where to find a man named Murphy.

            “Well, sir, it all depends on which Murphy,” says the farmer.  “We have Murphy the doctor, Murphy the postal carrier, Murphy the stonemason and Murphy the teacher.  As a matter of fact, I, too, am Murphy, Murphy the farmer.”

            The German gets an idea.

            “The weather could change by Tuesday,” he says.

            “Aye,” says the farmer, “you’ll be wanting Murphy the spy.”



         My recipe for Irish Coffee.

         Freshly brewed strong coffee poured into a glamorous cup.

         Add one jigger of real Irish whiskey – Jameson’s is my favorite, and Bushmills works also.

         Gently stir and top with real whipped cream.

         Sip it getting just a bit of the cream on you upper lip and then find your lover and have him or her kiss it off.

        

March 17, 2019 – Fast thinking

         You know those moments in life when you automatically do something that “saves the day” in a small way.

               Your lightning fast reflex when the teabag box falls out of the cabinet and you catch it before it lands on the countertop.

               Your quickly moving your feet to safety as the quart sized V-8 juice can spills out of a split plastic grocery bag on the way into the house.

               Your snatching the rolling egg on the counter top before it reaches the edge at the same time you are pouring your coffee. Whew - that was a close one – cleaning up raw egg from a kitchen floor ranks right up there in the top five awful chores.

         You know – reaction time, automatic reflex, quick thinking. We all have it to one degree or another.

         I had one of those moments the other day and I thank God, I still have those powers, or does one consider them life skills.

         For some unknown reason to me at the time, I flushed my toilet and suddenly the water came up to the lip of the bowl and started to pour over the edge onto the floor.

         I had just hung up brand new towels nearby and my hypersonic reaction was – NO – I am not going to snatch them and toss them on the floor.  Then I thought about the rug in front of the shower making a dam out of it and tossed that thought away just as quickly. Then, I instantly remembered that my Rainbow vacuum can suck up water and I started to count 1-2-3-4 . . . . 25-26.

         I have this funny habit of counting mentally at the strangest times – is that a sign of OCD- oops back to the matter at hand.  Maybe I was just timing myself because I needed to act fast.

         Within 26 seconds I dashed to the closet, grabbed the vacuum, pulled it into the bathroom and plugged the electrical cord into the socket in the next room and turned it on and sucked up the water around the toilet in a jiffy. 

         Once the panic situation was under control, I then proceeded to unplug the toilet, mop the entire bathroom floor, and, empty and clean the tank in the Rainbow.

         As I was re-wrapping the cord around the top of the Rainbow vacuum, I had a thrilling feeling of satisfaction – you know – that Superwoman self-Kudos moment.

         For the rest of the day, I had a lilt in my step.  I was congratulating myself with self-satisfaction.

         I still have the “right stuff” – on occasion that is.

         I hope you note your moments of greatness. You need to celebrate them when you have them, because you still have the “right stuff” too.

March 16, 2019 – A quote and this and that

QUOTE:

         In the March/April edition of Writer’s Digest, is Padma Venkatraman’s essay, The Science of Writing.  It is in the Inkwell section under 5-Minute Memoir.

         What caught my attention was the side bar:

         . . . “When we read, we respond not just to the meanings of words but to rhythm and cadence – we listen to the music of the language because language, at is best, sings.”

         Padma couldn’t have explained it better.

         That is what I am striving for – the “SINGS” writing and I am far from it. 

         I don’t find enough of that type of writing to read.  But, when I do find it, I savor it as I read and re-read it slowly like a piece of good chocolate being held and melted on my tongue.

THIS AND THAT:

         I took the new [to me] pickup truck to the convenience center, what they call the dump in this area.  When I got there, four men were jockeying their pickups to back them up to the green metal dumpsters.

         Me, I decided to pull over to the side out of their way and park.  I unlatched the tailgate and carried my trash three car lengths to the green metal dumpsters.

         “I see you got you a truck,” called the friendly attendant.  He came out to look over the truck and said,

         “Nice looking . . .” and he grabbed one of my trash bags and hauled it to the metal dumpster while I made the second trip.

         “You should have gotten closer,” he commented.

         “When I got here, the place was filled up with men backing in.  I wasn’t going to jockey around with them.  I can walk.”

         He laughed at me smiling, “There is no one here now.”

         “Yeah, they’ve all left . . .” I said as I glanced around.

         “Is it good driving?”

         “Lots of giddy-up and go.  I haven’t gotten a load of mulch in it yet – I expect to in the next couple of weeks.”

         He nodded and peered into the empty truck bed commenting,

         “I’ve always owned a pickup truck. In fact, I’ve never driven a car.”

         I rolled those words over in my mind and smiled.  I couldn’t think of anything to say. 

         I confidently lifted and closed the tailgate.  Yes, that was one reason why I bought the truck.  That and it had running boards so I could easily climb into it and it is an automatic.  But, the real reason I picked it out – the color - blue. 

         I’ve thought about that comment – never driven anything but a truck.  I can’t image a man in his late 50s or early 60s not having driven a car, at least once in a while. His wife’s car, or a loner, or a rental?

         Did he take his gal to the prom in a truck? Maybe he didn’t go to a prom. What about going on vacation with the whole family – they haven’t had extended cabs but for the last dozen years . . .

         I have mulled over that comment for a couple of days now.  No, I am not judging, I am just thinkin’ about it and the ramification of only drivin’ a truck.

CHASE – AIRIN:

         Today I needed to get new keys for my truck.  I’m at the Dodge service desk and one of the fellas is cutting me new keys.  On the back wall there is a white board with the words in caps across the top:

         “CHASE – AIRIN”

         Directly under the dash is a vertical line dividing the white space in two.  There is a note on the left “Wm Paul battery”. There is nothing on the right.

         I am wondering – could those be names?  We did have a Chase community in the southern part of the county. I used to live there, so I am familiar with it.  Was Chase the location? Chase could also be a man’s name or a women’s name.  I seem to be noticing more “both” gender names on nametags on places that I shop recently.

         AIRIN? Something to do with air in tires?  I glance around the rest of the room and notice a first name “Chase” is on a technician diploma with level 1 and another with level 2 above the right computer terminal at the front counter.

         I look to the opposite computer and look for anything that may give me a clue to Airin.  No diplomas.  I lean to the left of the terminal and hanging on a nail is a lanyard with the picture of the fella who is cutting my keys just out the side door.  I can hear him, but I can’t see him.  Airin is his first name on his employee identity tag.

         I wonder, anything to do with Erin go bragh [Ireland Forever].  It is St. Patrick’s day week.

         I am so curious. It is taking forever for the keys to be made.

         When Airin comes back I launch an inquisition at him.

         “Airin that’s your first name?"

         He nods at me suspiciously. I can’t blame him. 

         “Anything to do with being Irish as in Erin go bragh?”  That seemed logical to me, he has reddish hair.

         “It is just a different spelling, that’s all.”

         “It is an unusual spelling, it’s pronounced like E-R-I-N?  Any reason why.”

         “Yeah, my Mom didn’t want me called A-RON.  Instead of A-A-R-O-N, she spelled it A-I-R-I-N.”

         “Does it cause you any problem?”

         “I wish I had 20 bucks, no a quarter for every time it has been spelled wrong . . . I’d be a millionaire by now,” he laughed with a big smile.  He was a good-natured fella, probably under 30 – he’d have to deal with it the rest of his life.

         He had my credit card now and was ringing me up.

         I said, “Yeah, like everyone wanting to pronounce the “H” in Theresa when it is silent.”

         He looked up and knowingly smiled.

        

        

                 

        

        

March 15, 2019 – “Margaret is not my name . . .

          . . . Peggy is on my birth certificate,” said a fellow classmate adamantly correcting the teachers when I was in high school.  It was the first thing I noticed about the gal who sat near the end of the alphabet, in the last row of seating right before “Zangarine”.

         That was the beginning of knowing her.  We were both in the same “home room” class [and many others] from seventh grade through senior at the regional high school that was built on the town line between our two towns.  I was the first person of the S through Z section of the home rooms. 

         It was a nice regional high school, plunked down in the middle of a watershed area in a pine forest near the Wachusett Reservoir. Our school mascot was a Stag and many times as I’d ride the bus to school I’d catch a glimpse of a deer bounding from one side of the highway to the other.

         Our school colors were forest green and white, always fresh and crisp, making classic good looks for cheer leading and band uniforms.

         My sister-in-law, Peggy, was constantly correcting the new home room teacher or any new teacher who persisted in calling her by the name of Margaret. Of course, they tried to argue with her by saying we don’t go by nicknames. After the fourth or fifth time in the first couple of days and hearing this persistent exchange of teacher vs. student, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her and thought she should just keep a copy of her birth certificate with her so that she could flash teachers to put them in their place. I witnessed this often through our high school years.

         What was more interesting about this exchange, the majority of the teachers called on us in our classes by surnames alone or sometimes with Miss or Mr. in front of them so whether it was Peggy vs. Margaret it was a moot point.

         It was a cross she’d have to bear her whole life.

         Peggy died March 1, 2019 after a short illness. But, she had a full life and was talented in many ways.

         I hope when she gets to the Pearly Gates she finds Peggy – not Margaret on the check-in reservation.

         I must remember when I see her again, to ask her about that.

Peggy St. John

March 1, 1953  March 7, 2019

Eternal rest, grant unto her O Lord

and let perpetual light shine upon her.

May she rest in peace. Amen

May her soul and the souls of all the faithful departed,

through the mercy of God, rest in peace.

Amen.

      

      

        

March 14, 2019  - “How’s the writing going,” my dear brother asked.

         “Not well.”

         I will use one of my favorite lines I shout at myself – mentally, not aloud – What was I thinking?

         I downsized my computer desk to a raised desk which I am discovering is simply too small for me.  I thought it was a good idea at the time, getting rid of the executive style wrap around desk with credenza for a bistro bar that has two bar stools. 

         The new bar – now desk top has my two flat screens, my speakers, a yellow sticky note holder, a Delft cup with pens and pencils and my mouse and key board and nothing else.  It is merely 22 inches deep and 40 inches wide. There is hardly room for a coffee cup or a copy stand – unless you want either to fight with the wireless mouse.

         I am honestly not comfortable.  The stools are uncomfortable – not on the back, but the buttocks where they seem to want to cut off the circulation to my legs and feet.

         I’ve suffered it out for the last month or so – but today I ordered a new draftsman type chair – adjustable. Maybe that will help, maybe that will allow for proper foot circulation, maybe that will enable me to sit at my computer and type like the old days . . . for hours at a stint.  That sure is my hope.

         So, my writing has not been going well even though I have plenty of ideas.  I’ve plenty of stuff I have written in long hand on old fashioned white lined pads in the last several weeks, but it hasn’t been keyed into the computer yet. So changes won’t be forth coming soon.

         I am in a stall which I created myself and I am trying to creatively get out of that stall.

         I didn’t realize that I was 100% married to that executive desk – even though it wasn’t the right size for this house.

         And, not certain the raised chair will work, I also put into place a second option. I’ve ordered a lap desk that would rest over the arms of a dining room chair. I can prop my feet on an ottoman and kick back and relax . . . that seems silly – but it might work out better.

         Meanwhile, we have the Writers’ Workshop coming up at our local college in April, and that should inspire me as well as another class I have signed up for just for “kicks and giggles”.

         That class is Copperplate Calligraphy – series of 5 evening classes given by The Visual Arts Center.  When I am done with that class, I will probably write out my monthly bills the “old fashioned way” with nib and bottle of ink. 

         Maybe my personal “John Hancock” [signature] will actually look like what he signed on the Declaration of Independence.  We will see . . . I will keep you posted.

         “OHH . . . I wonder if my bank will cash my check with the new signature?”  - Maybe that will be my next: “What was I thinking?”

March 6, 2019 – Clear out – as the English say and Rattlesnake eggs

         I’ve been having a serious “clear out” as the English say – not just tossing out worn clothes or things. But, a real assessment of every item in every cupboard or closet in this house.

         I often watch the series entitled As Time Goes By with Judi Dench and Geoffrey Palmer on the PBS station.  On more than one occasion there has been a “clear out” to make room in her closet for Lionel [Geoffrey] to move in and then another “clear out” for Sandy to move in.

         I like the phrase because the object is “OUT” not just straightening up or looking for rummage for the annual church rummage sale. The “OUT” seems to motivate me better.

         Then, as I am re-decorating two rooms, a close girlfriend visiting asked, innocently,

         “Do you need all these books?”

         She wasn’t being rude, she was being inquisitive.  At first, I brushed the comment off, but then I started to assess the depth of that question.

         No, I don’t really need all of these books.  Many I had purchased at various local library sales for 50 cents or a dollar or at thrift stores.  Others I had purchase from Alibris my favorite used book store. And, of course, others were posh coffee table books that I’d bought when I was making a serious income.

         Her question suddenly became the impetus to reduce my books by one half or more – but my one-half was my beginning point – for this round of clear out. 

         When I first read Marie Kondo’s tidying up magic book – [see my January 17, 2017 blog for more details] – I carried out bags and bags of books to a local library.  It was refreshing and I set up a row of books not yet read and have been reading and sending them along to a better home in the last year.

         My dear friend had a point.  Read it – send it on its way.  If it is a classic and you want to re-read it, you probably can get it at the library or through library-loan. The internet has massive amounts of information that are at your fingertips and you don’t need 20 gardening books on the shelf to look things up.

         Out went the entire collection of flower arranging books.  Out went all but one of the garden design books – I had them just about memorized anyway.  Out went three-fourths of the vegetable gardening books – I can recite the spacing of most seeds by heart because I’ve been at it for years.

         Then – out went the collection of coffee table books – those big glossy books filled with pictures that I’d read and re-read hundreds of times.  As I opened the first one, I finally realized, it is time – they no longer give me any pleasure as I already knew what was coming on the next page before I even turned to it.  I am actually down to three.  One is Kansas City, one is Spartanburg, South Carolina, and one is Provence – it is a cookbook – travel book. The first two are now “history books” for me – where I lived, where I worked and the last one – I haven’t finished trying all the recipes or finished reading it.  Provence is truly the one place I want to visit on my “bucket list”.

         Do I still have more books than I need?  Sure, but I will continue to read, or re-read and toss.  I’ve removed two six-foot book shelves so I had no choice but to toss out 12-shelf feet of books. When I get to the closets, [where I have more books] – I will re-think their fate as well.

         I have this aversion of tossing books in the dump. I remember the films shown by our history teacher of Nazi’s tossing books into a fire that left an indelible impression on me.

         So, I lovingly boxed up my books and took them to assorted thrift shops.  I am a firm believer of:

One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.

         

         You are probably wondering what a “clear out” of books has to do with Rattlesnake eggs.

         Well, a small 3 x 6 Kraft envelope with the front marked:

         “One dozen Rattlesnake Eggs; CAUTION:  Keep in cool place to prevent hatching . . . .” was used as a bookmark in one of my favorite gardening books.

         The bookmark is a familiar item to me; my husband and I have had lots of laughs with it.

         My dear Mom sent it to us when we lived in Missouri where we heard and saw many rattlesnakes.  We heard stories of “rattlesnake roundups” from new friends who had participated in them.  Just the memory of those tales still gives me goosebumps.

         At Christmas, Mom sent us this unusual envelope in our Christmas box and I immediately picked it up, read it and turned it over and cautiously opened the back flap.  Below is a You-Tube video of the type of reaction I had some 40 years ago.

         It was a great practical joke.  Knowing that I always wound up the washer on the rubber band which is the basic principle of this trick and replaced it in the envelope after each occurrence so that I’d get that “thrilling laugh” the next time I ran up on this little time-capsule treasurer, I was so darn disappointed when I opened the flap and “nothing”.

         Upon inspection, I found the rubber band had turned to dust which means – it really is time to part with this little treasure.  But, I wanted to memorialize it here.

         I still wonder where my Mom found such a great gag gift.  She would have been pleased to know we’d used it on unsuspecting friends, and neighbors in all the places we lived.  It was often pulled out of a drawer or cabinet for a good laugh.  Mom loved good humor.

        

Youtube of outcome of rattlesnake gag:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C8xXCUi2ts4

March 1, 2019 – “You might need to know this . . .”

          “ . . . in case you have to move again and you are not professionally packed,” said the gal stacking the white and blue rose design everyday dishes on the counter top, followed by lining up the glasses and coffee cups according to size.

         What did I know?  I was dealing with movers in Leominster, Massachusetts, while my husband was already in Kansas City, Kansas working at his new Plant Manager’s position.  Our one bedroom apartment was being packed up that morning and that afternoon all the boxes were loaded into the long distance moving van.  I remember our first move was with Mayflower.  It seems appropriate now – moving out of the state of Massachusetts, when the Pilgrims arrived via the Mayflower.

         This was the beginning of the adventure of being a corporate wife and it was all new, all intimidating, and my first thought was, yes, I better learn how to do this – just in case.  I was twenty-two and naïve to say the least. And, I was alone – solo – my friends were at work. Yes, the beginning of being the “one-woman” show at many times during my corporate life.

         The age thirty-something woman dressed in clean, but over washed casual clothes, grabbed a sheaf of blank newsprint packing paper and unfolded it on the kitchen bistro table for two.  She pulled the table closer to the counter top and grabbed dishes and quickly wrapped them and set them on end in the empty box I would soon discover was called a “dish pack” specifically for china set at her feet.  After she did a few plates she slowed down and said,

         “Here is how you do this, then fold, then tuck, then set them on the edge . . .”

         I leaned over her shoulder to see what she was doing, but then I went out one kitchen arch into the living room and then into the hall and back into the kitchen so that I was on the opposite side of the table to see more clearly.

         Once she had the majority of the dishes in the bottom of the box she explained, “You put the heavy stuff on the bottom about half way.  Then you do the glasses like this.”

         Her nimble hands rolled and tucked and rolled and tucked and swiftly the box filled with rolled packages containing the coffee cups and glasses. 

         Looking at the empty top of the carton she asked, “Any more glassware anywhere?”

         Her husband, the second member of the professional packing team, was around the corner in the bedroom taking the clothes out of the closet on hangers and putting them in giant boxes which I was told were “wardrobe” boxes.  He called, “I’ve got some here in the bathroom and the bedroom . . .”

         Before being asked, I ran and fetched them, my antique canisters that my Grandma Nixon had given me that I put my cotton balls and Q-tips in, [and still do to this day] and a pink depression glass cake plate which held my makeup.

         Then I fetched more items in the bedroom and cruised through the living room to see if any glassware was hiding in plain sight, bringing it to the packer in the kitchen.

         The woman smiled at me and said, “Your first move, how exciting for you.  You have your suitcases all packed?”

         “Yes.”

         “Put them over there in the corner so that we don’t grab them by mistake when we are loading the truck.”

         She was done with that carton, sealed it, and shoved it near the wall.  She opened another box, taped it, turned it and continued to pack.  This time she was in the lower cabinet in the pots and pans. 

         I was left to wander into the bedroom to see what her partner was up to.  He was on my side of the closet now, took a tightly held handful of hanger tops, swept an armful of clothes from the closet, and swished them into a tall box.  He shoved those to one side of the metal rod taped to the box edge.  Next, he unceremoniously grabbed several handfuls of my shoes and tossed them in the bottom.  When he was done with those, he added the bed pillows and then continued with the rest of my clothes.

         I was unsettled by the sight of the almost empty closet, and the huge boxes lined up against the wall.

         When he got to the living room, the husband called to his wife who was working on the spice cabinet, having finished the food pantry for her to get him picture boxes, and boxes for the lamps and shades. She was now using small square boxes in the kitchen.

         When she came around the corner, she said,

         “Those cleaning products can’t go and I’ve set out several items from your food pantry I suggest you don’t ship. Give them to your neighbors.” 

         She went out the door, down the two-story flight of stairs to the Mayflower Van that was blocking traffic at our end of the large apartment complex.

         I started to clean the bathroom, then the bedroom, and was cleaning in the kitchen when the husband came to me and said. 

         “I’ve tagged all the items, they all have stickers on them.” He showed me the balance of a roll of numbered stickers he had in his hand.

         It was at this point I was directed down to the truck to watch as each item was carried down two flights of stairs, out the propped open public entry door into the waiting moving van.  The wife filled out the carbon pack inventory and the husband, all by himself, carried the items down.  He had a dolly to move the few large pieces of furniture we had.  At the end of the furniture and boxes, my husband’s compact car was driven in via ramps, and lastly my car was driven in.

         The carbon sets were snapped apart, stapled at the top, and handed to me.  “When we get to Kansas City, we will call you, but we have two more households to pick up and deliver before we get to you.”

         I was numb; I nodded and tried to press a smile on my face.

         But, when the man pushed the ramps into their storage space and then swung those large doors to clamp the truck shut, my heart sank.

         I had been bracing myself during this emotional day, but the final “clink” of the doors being latched broke my reserve.

         I sucked in air, gasped, and fought back the tears.

         All our possessions were in that truck.  This was the beginning of my new corporate life, but it also was the end of this life here. What lays ahead of me, of us?

         The dry August heat that day beat down on me as I stood in the parking lot alone watching the driver and his wife climb into the high cab of the moving van and it lumbered up the drive onto the main road.

         Hot tears spilled down my face.

         “Oh my!” I gasped and shook my head – I couldn’t even find words to talk to myself at that moment.

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         That packing and moving scene played out another half dozen times in our corporate “merry-go-round” life over the next several years. It never got easier and the delivery on the opposite ends were just as emotional.

         BUT, I never forgot the lesson on how to pack china and I’ve used it on many occasions.

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         So, using one of my many “corporate wife” skills . . . I bought several moving boxes yesterday, a package of plain newsprint packing paper, and I just now packed up all the china and crystal in my breakfront in my dining room.

         I am painting the dining room that adjoins my recently revitalized formal living room. Movers will be coming to move the massive piece of furniture away from the wall tomorrow so that I can paint.

         Yes, I learned well.  I tucked, folded, wrapped, and rolled each item lovingly in paper.  I was sure to put the heaviest items in the bottom of the box and the lightest on the top.

         However, this time there was no emotional gasping “Oh my,” as this is only to keep my china and dishes from being broken during the room painting.