Moving is never fun. Scores of people have horror stories about their moves. I've moved so much in the last fifteen years I've almost gotten blasé about the whole process. But I'd never moved from one state to the other before. This is our saga.
Given the woeful state of the state of Illinois, it was high time we hightailed it out of there. Between the endemic corruption, the horrificly out-of-proportion taxes, the tolls, the congestion, the pettiness and the burgeoning governmental intrusion into every facet of life, Illinois is not a place to live.
We drove back on Wednesday night and immediately began to pack up loose ends. We got to bed early knowing that the next day would be long and hard, planning to get up early. Our reservation for the truck I'd be driving was at eight o'clock, and the movers we'd hired to pack the truck would be there at eight thirty. Even assuming there were no problems, we'd be cutting it close.
The truck rental agency wasn't open when we arrived, so we checked out the truck I'd be driving -- fully loaded with all our furniture and other belongings -- and waited for them to open. When they opened, we learned that because Karen had signed up for the rental, I had to pay $17 as an additional driver and $10 for a background check by DHS. That wasn't welcome news, but the truly shocking news was that over the course of the last couple of months, seventy-eight trucks had been rented by people for one way trips out of Illinois. People were fleeing the state. And we were lucky because there were three other people who had rented trucks that same day who weren't going to get one because all the trucks were out of state.
I drove the truck back to the house to find the crew we'd hired on craigslist waiting for us. There were three guys -- street guys, it seemed -- but they knew their stuff. It was like a giant game of Tetris at two guys moved stuff out of the house with me and one guy inside the truck fit it all together. Karen kept herself more than busy finalizing the packing and worrying that we didn't have enough room in the car or storage unit to get all our stuff out of the house.
The packing of the truck took about six hours. The movers were pretty good and they appreciated, respectfully, the water and drinks Karen provided them. When they finally left, there was a discussion about the ages of the movers and my age, and I had to break out my driver's license to prove that I was as old as one of their fathers.
Once we got the three big pieces of furniture out of the basement that we were going to donate, I tried to contact the Cancer Federation to arrange for a pickup from our neighbors' house, because they were kind enough to allow the CF to pick up the items there the next week after we were out of our house. The CF wouldn't allow me to schedule the reservation because I'm not a member of the family. Apparently, DHS's tentacles stretch farther than I thought. I spoke with the neighbors, moved the items to their garage and thanked them profusely.
I then found out that our dining room table wouldn't fit in my car so that I could take it to storage, so I had to importune yet another neighbor to hold it for three weeks until we could return to pick it up with a smaller truck. Thank goodness for nice neighbors. At least I think that's their motivation. I hope it's not because they just want us to get out of town.
Karen and I kept packing after they left, with me shuttling things to the storage facility to get it out of the house or to the donation center to get rid of it. We worked as hard as we could until it got dark then bedded down on a foam mattress on the floor of the master bedroom for what would be our final night in our first house together. Tomorrow, we reasoned, we'd get up early, take stuff to storage and donation, pack up the car and throw some things into the truck and leave before we had to be out of the house at noon.
The next morning we overslept because the alarm didn't go off. I immediately jumped out of bed and drove to the storage facility to unload the car I'd loaded the night before. The skies were ominous but I was hopeful there'd be no rain, fool that I was.
I must have made about five trips when Karen called in a panic. Apparently, our agent didn't inform us there'd be a final walk-through and the buyers were going to be there any minute. We still had far more belongings to take care of and now we had one less hour in which to move them all. Desperation doesn't describe the feeling we shared -- all we wanted to do was get packed up and on the road.
The couple buying the house touched Karen's heart and lessened our worries. We still had to go to yet a third neighbor to hold our bikes and a couple of boxes. Then the rains came. Sheets of rain just pouring down as we tried to get the car packed and the last few items into the truck. I ended up driving a twenty-four foot truck seated next to the kitchen garbage can loaded with odds and ends which was next to the office chair inverted on the passenger car seat beneath which were more odds and ends including a very expensive dog poop scoop. Wedged underneath the console was a child's doll with great sentimental value for Karen but also with a full head of hair that kept itching me while I tried to drive the twenty-four footer. At one point, it became too much such that I pulled it out from underneath, guided it under the steering wheel -- all while going sixty-five miles an hour on the express way, creating a sight for anyone who could see through the blankets of rain that were coming down -- and into my left arm whence I guided it onto the four-wheeler that rested on the console in front of the passenger seat. I barely had any view of the rearview mirror on the right side of the truck, because I had to bob and weave between the legs of the office chair and the doll to see anything on the right side of the truck.
Before we finally left our first house I changed into a dry shirt and helped Karen into the car. Her rear view out the right side of the car was no better and in fact worse, but at least she could go more than seventy miles an hour.
We pulled out of the neighborhood on a gloomy early afternoon and wended our way to the expressway. It seemed somewhat ironic that on an otherwise happy day, it was raining.
Perhaps it was just the state's way of telling us it was sorry.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
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