Routine Change

There's nothing more disturbing to your peace of mind than moving. Crating and boxing up your life and shipping it off to another locale is less than tranquil. From watching the movers ding your walls of the old house with a dresser to the unwrapping of the moving blankets of said dresser to check for damage, it's all unsettling.

I know they're only things being shuttled from A to B but they're our things. The only things we own. And while some of those things don't look quite right in the new house or I'm secretly sick of looking at that thing and wish it broke in the truck, things cost money. We can't wantonly discard things as if they had no value because things can't be replaced with the snap of your fingers. There's also a cost associated with turning something useful into garbage.

A friend put us onto a website called freecycle.org
It's a very cool way to give your stuff to others for free. One of our last days in the old CT house we successfully gave away needed baby stuff to an expecting dad whose wife was in labor at the hospital. Pretty cool. My old Smith machine that's been sitting unused in the basement had become an expensive coat rack. An hour of disassembly and carting all the parts to the curb and a couple freecycle e-mails and poof, it was gone. No haggling about money or petty details. You want it? Come take it or someone else will.

So we're in the new digs in Massachusetts and I'm feeling right at home. Met new neighbors that enjoy scotch and cigars. Small world, eh? The rest of the family? Oh yes. They're adjusting just fine.

The big challenge right now is finding stuff. There's over 100 boxes of stuff. Each one is labeled with cryptic messages like "shelf items" or "upstairs closet". I know they couldn't inventory everything in the carton but locating things as simple but necessary as coffee filters or flip flops isn't easy.

One of our movers remains beyond memorable. He shook my hand at the door on the first day and gave a slight bow of his head. "Hello, sir," he said. "I am Turk." Turk turned out to be his nickname because he hails from Turkey, though he pointed out later that he was only 50% Turkish. He had some Russian and Greek blood in his veins as well.

Turk packed boxes with admirable efficiency. While packing my home office, he asked me about American football after seeing some of my stuff. Turk said, "I do not understand your football. I mean, I understand it but I prefer more strategy in competition. The athletes, what they do to their bodies."

I explained the idea of football, especially on the professional level is more like gladiatorial combat. People pay to see the violence. There's little difference between the Roman audience in the Colosseum and today's modern pro football fan. He agreed on the reference but we agreed to disagree on the strategy.

Turk and some of the other movers made an impression on my kids. Turk slowly took on an educational role with Jake, my 4 year old. At one point he said to him, "Jake, one day you will meet a big man with blond hair and blue eyes. His name will also be Turk. Shake his hand and call him friend because..." At this point the other three movers all joined in a chorus, finishing the line, "because he will one day rule the world!" They all broke up in laughter. Turk must have big plans for his 5 month old son.