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.