Welcome Back!

After spending 21 years in the heart of Texas, we officially welcomed my dad and stepmom back to Virginia on Wednesday with smiling faces and open arms....arms that were quickly filled with boxes. My dad had driven up two weeks ago to get a head start on the house, and by head start I mean ripping out the carpet, hanging drywall, taking out car-sized bushes of the front yard, painting, and getting to know the neighbors, mailman, town mayor, and the entire staff at Lowes.  My stepmom tied up the loose ends and came in over the weekend, followed by, at long last, the trailer of their belongings that showed up two nights ago.  

The rain fell heavy in the morning as my nephew and I pulled up--a little late because well, he's a teenager and was asleep when I arrived to pick him up--to unpack a trailer loaded (quite clumsily) with more than a few antiques.  But not to worry, an expert crew of three movers was already on the truck. Nice guys who told stories of moving while moving.  I’m not calling them fibbers, but some of their tales faltered under further scrutiny.  I Googled lead sleep sofa Larry, it’s impractical…But they would need a hand with this job…

If there’s a worst-case scenario for moving, it’s moving the belongings of a lifetime DJ and author.  Box after box of books were carted from the depths of that endless trailer, and then a few boxes of books.  There were enough books to fill a couple of boxes of kindles.  Between the boxes of books we found cases of albums.  Perhaps a few books on tape, I can’t say.  At times I felt like we were in fact relocating the national archives and records administration.

After the books came the furniture, a welcomed change.  The rain began to let up and we got in a rhythm…but there were some casualties.  I don’t know who loaded this truck, but they were not on good terms with the word fragile.  Antiques were mere obstacles, used to hold up, well, boxes of books.  It was painful to see tables and chairs I grew up with unwrapped only to reveal splintered, cracked, or broken pieces.  But my parents took it in stride.

With the boxes piled and the truck finally emptied, the movers said goodbye and we were left amongst the scattered belongings of two very special people.  It was then I realized that while it may be aggravating and unfortunate that some things were damaged in the trip, the important stuff had already arrived safe and sound.  Because whether they live in Texas, Virginia, or somewhere in between, they're just happy to have each other.

And we couldn’t be happier to have them back.  Simon’s grandparents have cut the distance between them and him by a couple thousand miles, and it still seems unreal. Just a few months ago they surprised us with the news of their moving back and yesterday, as we sat at their table to have lunch in their dining room, it was hard to believe.  Facetime can now be actual face time. 

Jerked Around...

My life continues its transformation as over the weekend I lost my one and only room in the house.  Unofficially labeled the office, the spare room offered a glimpse into the interior design skills of the consummate man-child. 

Classic Sports illustrated covers adorned the rustic wood paneled walls as tacky met vintage in a mash up of thrift store finds, curb alert pick-ups, and my grandfather’s hand me downs.   All found a home in the one room that welcomed all items without regard to age or wear.

It was a room for items old and odd.  There’s the disconnected rotary phone, a torn Saturday Evening Post cover from the 1930’s, a miniature drum set, a painting of Shea Stadium, and my wife’s nemesis; the 1970’s style desk she has lamented since the day I pulled into the yard with it in the back of my truck (along with the shattered back window due to me not securing it).  It was truly a room that could only be appreciated by a guy.

But as we prepare for the next chapter in adulthood, changes are necessary, if not inevitable.  Our guest room is becoming the baby’s room, which means my office is becoming the guest room, which means my things are banished to the basement. 

Not to go down wiithout a fight (or just whining), I moaned and complained with each trip down the stairs, and at one point I may or may not have said something about not wanting to grow up.  Kicking and screaming, I carried sports memorabilia, concert posters, and that trusty rotary phone down to my its new location, and as I hung my football pennants on the wall and adjusted my posters, I realized that growing up means making sacrifices.