week! I hauled French Sparks, Grandma Nelle, Nixon and Mao across town in my pick-up.
While the Ukrainians deconstructed my former three-family property, I reconstructed the past in order to move it. Truck after Okie-truckload of memories and books coming to rest. Photos, slides, films, portraits of people. An old Cleveland Press newspaper blaring NIXON RESIGNS in huge red sans serif font.
No sign of tenants I inherited when I bought the place: Lola, straight from West Virginia who loved Rose of Sharon trees and had a ritual for paying her rent, RIP; Raven (nee Debra) and her pit bull Misery (nee Misery, RIP), who moved to Florida.
A Brother and a Remington. Two Macs.
This is what I like about men: I ask for help moving the precious piano and Rocco, Mike, and Dave show up within an hour. They are glassblowers. They like to make things happen. Improvise.
The mother is heavy, but somehow they maneuver it into the truck bed, working as a team, no discussion, no memos, no meetings, no protocol, no second thoughts. How to anchor it? Grab a tire from the treelawn. Go.
Later, Ben, who refuses to move one more box of Angle magazines--can't blame him, he's hauled hundreds and hundreds--pulls the last few belongings inside. Call me moved. I swear it's the last time.