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Stressless Moving Series

Certain events in life cause great levels of stress. Some of the biggest stressors include loss of a loved one, major health issues, becoming an empty nester, loss of a job, retirement and moving. There are many others, and by no means am I downplaying their importance. In the past year, I have experienced each of those I listed above. At least once.

Some of these I’ve talked about a little I think. And some I don’t care to talk about at all. But moving, now that’s a subject I will gladly talk about. So, just to give all my readers a heads up, I am going to be putting together a series of posts regarding my adventure in moving. From nineteen years in the suburbs to a mini farm in the county.

Stay tuned for chapter one soon!

That’s part of my story. What’s yours?


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Gassed Up Adventure!

A full tank of gas promises unlimited adventure. An empty tank promises another kind of adventure. A kind that is more like orienteering your way through an alligator infested swamp than meandering through museums in Manhattan.

The gas gauge on my scooter isn’t always real accurate. Much like the speedometer. To know how much fuel I have takes a little bit of mental math. How many trips have I made since I filled up, and how long were they? It’s generally not too hard and I pretty much know how to interpret the gauge. And how far I can push my luck. If I open the cap of the tank and look in only to see that it’s bone dry, I put gas in it. On the other hand, if I can see even a drop I know I’m good for a few miles. Hadn’t thought about it much until the other day.

It was Tuesday and my regular day to go to my antique shop. Nice day, I’ll take the scooter. I looked at the gauge and it read full. I knew I’d made a trip or two. Short ones. I wasn’t worried. In a rush to get there I rode with the throttle wide open all the way. Burning fuel like there was no tomorrow. It was one of those rides where I pretend I’m riding a space ship.

Driving along I watched as the fuel gauge moved. Fast, and a lot. Dang. How far had those two trips been? Oh. Two round trips to work. Gulp.

By the time I got to the shop the gauge was looking like a quarter tank. That will get me home. It better. There are no gas stations between here and there. I poked around at the shop and finally got ready to ride home. I looked into the tank. A drop was visible. But I couldn’t remember going this far on that drop before.

All the way I took my time. A leisurely ride, more like a slow boat to China. You get a different feel for the road at a slower speed. And you can spend more time looking around at the scenery. I seemed to be the only one on the road so going slow was ok.

The gauge dropped into the red zone when I was still about ten miles out. This is where I knew I could go five miles. But what about ten? The traffic was picking up. I was having visions of running out of gas and having to push the bike to the house or a gas station. Even worse, I had visions of running out of gas and getting run over by a car as the scooter came to a sudden dead stop. Pushing was a better vision, but not up hill.

Finally I arrived at an intersection with two gas stations. Getting to one required a left turn across a busy intersection. The other was on my right. If I ran out of gas in the intersection making the left turn it could get messy. I took the chance and rolled into the station and up to a pump. When I opened the cap of the tank, yeah, right, bone dry.

Gassed up and ready to roll I was off on a new adventure. The rocket ride! That’s part of my story. What’s yours?


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Moving Mess

I have absolutely no idea how this is going to work.  In the end, it’s going to be the way it needs to be.  Or close to it anyway.  But in the mean time, between now and then, the way it unfolds will be an ordeal.  Or maybe to put a more positive spin on it I should say an adventure.  Yes, an adventurous ordeal.

The nuts and bolts of the process are already registering with my planning.  It’s just the sheer overwhelmingness of it that bugs me.  At my age, and in my superhuman physical condition, there are days when I get out of bed and don’t feel much like moving any further.  So, imagine what this is going to be like as my eighty something year old parents begin to gather up the contents of the home they have lived in for the past thirty eight years and move to a new home.

They have lived in this house for nearly half of their lives.  More than two thirds of mine.  And over the years they have gathered more and more and more souvenirs of their lives.  The house, with its basement and attic, is packed to the rafters.  As is the barn.  My dad calls my mother a pack rat, but he does a pretty good job of it himself.

They have a plan.  Or so they say.  Three piles.  One for taking straight to the new place.  One for taking to the new place later.  One for disposal, one way or another.  It’s not junk.  No rotten food, no old soda cans.  Nothing like that.  And they are not hoarders.  They have just collected, and stored neatly, a lot of stuff.  Over the years you accumulate stuff.

I’m going to visit this week for six days.  All of it devoted to sorting.  The dispose of pile will be my realm.  What do I want for me?  What can I sell in my shop?  Are there things that need to be auctioned?  Donated?  Trashed?  There may even be room for another pile which will be leave it in the barn and let the new owner figure out what to do with it.  That’s how the house came to them thirty-eight years ago.  And some of the stuff that was there then is still in the same place now.

What I’m a little afraid of is that when I planned this trip they had no firm plans as to when they were moving.  Could be a month or a year my dad would say.  Now, it’s a little more defined.  By the end of December.  This December.  Right.  So, there is a little more urgency in the project.  And that limits the time we can spend reminiscing over each and every item.  Even the trash pile will have wondrous treasures.  Stuff there is just no longer any room for.

The one nice thing about all this is that my parents will both be there.  In mind and body.  And I’ll get to hear the stories about all the things we reminisce over.  One chapter ends, and another begins.

That’s part of my story.  What’s yours?  www.personalhistorywriter.com

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