A Moving Pictorial And The Degrees of Fragility

Today I'll a few photos from the last couple of days before the moving truck arrives and we start the (happy, tiring, overwhelming, invigorating) unloading process.

Speaking of the moving truck, I had posted on Facebook yesterday a question about whether or not it was appropriate to tip movers and if so, how much. Among the very helpful responses I got was one from my big brother, Tim, which made me laugh out loud. (Which is kind of a startling thing to do early in the morning.)

He wrote, "I've heard that if you push them really hard when they are not looking you have a pretty good chance of tipping them. Much like cows."

Thanks for the laugh, Tim!

Okay. Photos. Now.


On Monday we ate our last family meal in our Smithfield home.




We had lasagna from the leftovers I froze after the wonderful ladies from the church cooked for our family last week.

We also had "cheese rounds," which are simply leftover refrigerated biscuits that didn't get eaten up the first time around. I throw them into the freezer for a rainy day (or a moving day) and then thaw them, slice them, butter them, sprinkle them with garlic salt, add a little cheddar (or you can leave the cheddar off, Sue) and broil a couple minutes. Simple and yummy. And a great use of leftovers.

After dinner, Sarah and I (and Snowy) climbed into our big bed for our last night of reading in Smithfield.




And speaking of "lasts, here's Snowy in my last picture of him in the house.


Nathan and Meagan during an "almost last" picture on Thanksgiving Day.



Steve said a last good-bye to a radio controlled airplane he built and flew years ago.




And I said a last good bye to a songwriting trophy I won a long time ago at a national songwriting conference. Both the plane and the trophy went to the curb with the trash. (And don't ask me why I have such a strange expression on my face because I don't know.)



(Note: The trophy was for second place in a sub category of songwriting so it wasn't terribly near and dear to me. In 2000, when I won Grand Prize for songwriting--across all categories-- I received a trophy that I will never get rid of. It was such an honor for me to win something like on a national level.)

But I digress. Back to moving we go . . .

The morning that the movers arrived, I decided to go ahead and bake a frozen pizza since sliced pizza in baggies is easier to transport than a big ol' pizza in a box. Sarah happened to come downstairs about then and I said, "Sarah, since it's our last morning here, would you like pizza for breakfast?"

Can you guess her answer?





Okay. Your assignment at this very moment is to gaze at the following photos and be thankful you're not in the middle of a move!












Also be thankful that you didn't slice your finger like I did while using the Big Macho Businesslike Tape Dispenser. I usually used the more feminine and genteel dispenser . . .





. . . but alas, at the moment of the finger slicing, the Big Macho Businesslike Tape Dispenser was the only one around.





Nothing like packing a hundred boxes with a finger that hurts and keeps bursting out into bounteous bleeding at any given moment. I kept on putting on Band-aids and they kept falling off. I was a pitiful little ol' Mangled Moving Mama.





I had to laugh when I saw this box. We had instructed Sarah to clearly mark anything that was fragile; she obviously decided to deem this box as "slightly fragile." Nothing like a writer to concentrate on the degrees of fragility contained in the packing of boxes.





And a few more . . .





















Outside the house, waiting to pull away for the last time.









And finally, this is is the sight that greeted us when we went to our house yesterday afternoon (between naps and doses of Tylenol) to move a few things in that we had brought in our van and car. The wonderful people in our church strike again!




I love this photo since it shows a reflection in the glass of the three people who will be doing the memory making!


Later on, I'll be posting pictures and stories from a new home and a new chapter of life.

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Comments and Questions:

Michelle, thanks for the compliment about the highlights in my hair. Nothing like a nice thick mustache to bring out a lady's hair color. And yes, I did have a recent hair cut; thanks for noticing.

Also, Ann asked if our new church has a website. No they don't but we would like to get one going soon.

Thanks for stopping by!

The Move And The Mustache

If I have ever been more tired in my entire life, I really cannot remember when. And when I say tired, I mean bone crunchingly, mind numbingly, muscle achingly exhausted.

Have I mentioned that I'm tired?

The three moving guys arrived yesterday at 10 am and the six of us worked (with just one brief break for lunch) until 6:30 pm. And when I say "worked," I mean non stop bending, moving, stair climbing, lifting, taping, box packing, crouching, reaching and twisting. (I burned so many calories I now weigh just 23 pounds.)

I actually took some pictures but--guess what? I can't find my camera cord. I think it's actually out in the van somewhere but I don't have the courage to go look for it because I'm afraid it might require additional moving and bending.

We spent last night in Manteo (got to bed a little before 11) and had originally planned to unload the truck today. However, with the combination of rain in the forecast and the fact that neither Steve or I are able to walk two steps without moaning and saying "ouch," we aren't going to unload the truck until tomorrow.

We'll spend a while today recuperating and then later on, we'll go over to our house and wander around for a while. It will be the first time to be in there with just our family and we will enjoy soaking in the Smithness of it all.

We brought quite a lot of stuff in our van and car so we might unload some of that later if we happen to find a reserve store of energy somewhere. Also, Steve is speaking for the Wednesday night service tonight, so he'll be getting prepared for that.

In the meantime, it will be rest, rest, and more rest. And lots of Tylenol. And lots of groaning. And "ouching." And remembering that I am middle aged. And also remembering that I never, ever want to move again. Ever.

Have I mentioned that I am tired?

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Quick note: I won't go into all the reasons but for a while at least, I have turned on the comment moderation function of this site. That just means that comments won't appear until they have been moderated. By the moderator. Which would be me!

As always, I love hearing from you and am so grateful for all of you who take the time to comment. You make my entire day.

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As for the pictures below? All I can say in my defense is that I was so busy packing for our move, I didn't have any time left over to spend on waxing.






Like mother, like son. (Nathan had just gotten out of the shower which is why he is rather shirt-less.)

Unscrambled Synapses And Friends

Today is The Day. Today is Moving Day. In four hours, one large truck and three large (and strong) guys will pull up in front of our house and start loading mattresses, macaroni and memories.

Are we all done packing? Ha. I think not. I know not. I am quite sure not.

So why am I sitting here at the computer instead of packing a box? Well, it's simply because the packing side of my brain is empty and the writing side of my brain is full. If I pack a box instead of write a post, my brain will tip over to one side and its contents will be redistributed into a morass of muddlement and befuddlement and my snapses will become scrambled which would thereby cause me to never again be capable of writing another post or packing another box.

(Did you get all that? Good.)

The moving company estimates it will take five to six hours to load everything so we'll be getting into Manteo near bedtime. Thankfully, we don't have to sleep in the new house tonight; another dose of chaos is not what my soul currently needs. (We'll spend the night in the cottage we've stayed at over the past two months.)

In the morning, the moving guys will return to unload everything into the new house and THEN real chaos will hit! But at least it will be fun chaos, because we'll be putting things away instead of packing them up. Which is a whole lot more enjoyable.

If I have any unscrambled synapses remaining by that time.

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Last week, Meagan's family traveled from Florida to North Carolina to spend Thanksgiving with their extended family who happen to live just twenty miles from our house.

Since we don't get to see the Hawleys as often as we'd like, we invited them over for lunch (homemade soup and rolls), even though we were in the throes of chaotic mayhem of the packing variety.

Usually I have a lovely table set for people coming to eat at our home. However, on Friday, this is what the Hawley family got.


Oh well! While the surroundings weren't lovely, the company sure was.

From left to right:

Meagan, Sarah, Kristen (Meagan's older sister) Frank (Meagan's Dad) Steve, Becky, Sheri (Meagan's Mom) Amanda (a Hawley friend and staff member at their church) and Nathan.





After lunch, Sheri and I sat in the dining room and talked, the younger folks went upstairs and the men repaired to the living room to engage in an important and life-enhancing activity.


Now don't be fooled by the placidity of the pictures you have just seen. Believe me when I tell you that the Hawleys are NOT a placid family. They are full of the zippiest vim and the most energetic vigor you have ever seen.

A case in point would be Nathan's 20th birthday party which we had in September at the Hawley's house in Florida. The following video highlights various versions of the birthday song we performed for the guest of honor. (In addition to the people in the earlier picture, you'll also see Meagan's sister Joy and Joy's husband, John.)

There now. Wasn't that fun?

While I'm still on the subject of the Hawleys, let me just say a word or two about my dear friend, Sheri. She is an incredibly gifted public speaker, writer, and ordained minister; she also co-pastors a church with Frank in Winter Haven, FL.

If you happen to be searching for a far-above-average speaker for a ladies' event, revival meeting, church service or conference, Sheri is the one to call. I have heard her speak in a variety of settings (including our former church in Smithfield) and have never known her to do anything less than stellar job. Sheri is a spiritually sensitive, accomplished and funny speaker who always has something worthwhile to say. (E-mail me at smithellaneous@yahoo.com for contact info.)

To give you a glimpse of her gift with words, click on the link below to read an article she wrote. Is it any wonder Meagan is so wonderful with a mom like Sheri?
Embrace the Grace

Between the Miscellaneous And The Memories

It's 8:34 am.

By a conservative estimate, I have at least 126 more hours of packing to do before the moving truck arrives tomorrow morning. So why am I sitting here writing a blog?

Good question.

However. Since I'm already here and since I've already decided that the packing will never, ever get done--not in this life nor in the life to come--I figure I might as well just go ahead and ignore it.

In fact that has become my new Life Philosophy, "If Ya Don't Like It, Ignore It!"

(I'll let you know how that works out for me.)

Since I was working so diligently last week pretending that the packing job did not exist, I was especially thankful that Nathan and Meagan were home so they could at least get his room whipped into shape. They spent many long hours in there and did a tremendous job. (Thanks for your efficient and fun help, Meagan!)

When they had gotten it all finished, I had to smile (and shed a tear) when I walked down the hall and happened upon this box.




And then when I saw this box, I smiled even bigger because I realized that Nathan and Meagan had made the important discovery that at some point in the packing journey, there comes a time when you run across a bunch of stuff that doesn't fit into any category, any box, or any special spot. Therefore, it is very important to establish the all important "miscellaneous" category. If you don't, you will go absolutely stark raving mad. Which I've already done. So it's too late for me. But maybe I can save someone else from the same fate.




Eventually, between the miscellaneous and the memories, Nathan's room got packed.

And eventually, the time came him for him and Meagan to leave this house for the very last time. Ever.

Since I don't have any words in my awesome adjective arsenal to describe the feelings that were engendered by that particular event, I'll let my pictures say the thousand words for me.

Nathan leaving the kitchen and walking into the garage. For the last time.



Meagan joining him in the garage. For the last time.



Smithfield hugs ensuing. For the last time.



And yet even more Smithfield hugs ensuing. For the last time.



Waving good-bye as Nathan and Meagan pulled away from our house. For the last time.

My child has left the house of his growing up years behind.

And in the wake of his leaving, my heart is filled with the bittersweet melody of the miscellaneous and the memories.

Childbirth and Moving

It has occurred to me that moving is very much like childbirth.

Both are painful. And messy. And exhausting. When you're in the middle of either activity, you think it's the worst thing you've ever been through. But then when you look back at it later, it seems as though it really wasn't all that bad after all.

That's where I am with moving. I originally thought, "Well, how bad can it be to just throw a few things into a few boxes and move to a new house. It's not that big of a deal."

"Ha." I repeat, "HA!"

It is bad. It is worse than bad. It is badder than worst. It is hard and tiring and frustrating and awful. I have packed boxes and carried boxes and made decisions and organized and re-organized and sorted and thought and pondered and run amok in a house that has collapsed into congealed chaos.

Ug. Yuck. Ewwww. Phooey. Patooey. Ish. Ick. Icky.

Need I say more? No?

Good, because I've run out of icky synonyms.

I know that we will eventually get moved and settled in and the boxes will get unpacked and the chaos will unravel itself to reveal order in our lives once again. But for now, I am sort of overwhelmed. Not a lot. Just a little. But it's okay. It doesn't last forever. And that's the best part about childbirth. And moving. They. Do. Not. Last. Forever.


And now I have for you a few pictures to gaze at which should go a long way toward making you thankful you are not the one who is moving right now.













And to make things even happier, when I got up yesterday morning, I discovered that my entire closet rod had collapsed. It was just what I needed. A bigger mess. O happy day.




Becky M. asked in the comments section what we would do if someone wanted to see the house now.

Funny you should ask, Becky, because our realtor just called to say that someone wants to see the house tomorrow.

I am happy. And sad.

Happy to have some interest. And sad because now I can't leave the house in the kind of mess I was thinking of leaving it in when we head out to Manteo later today. Now I have to clean toilets, counter tops, and mirrors. I have to make sure that my incredibly messy house is somewhat unincredibly clean.

Is it time for my nap yet?

Last Night

Last night the four of us grilled out hamburgers and hot dogs for dinner and then we watched a DVD together.

Last night. When I write those words, I really mean them in a whole different way. What I really mean is last night. As in final night.

When our DVD got over at about 9 pm, I looked around the room--at Steve, at Nathan, at Sarah, at Snowy and I thought, "This is the last night the four of us will ever sit in this room."

And before I knew it, I was crying. From "funny movie laughter" to "moving trauma tears," it was a dramatic emotional dive.

And it's not just that our whole family is moving to another house. That's traumatic enough. It's the fact that this is the last house we will ever live in as a family of four. From here on out, Nathan will be away more than he's home and then, in the not-so-distant future, he will be gone from us altogether.

I sat in that living room last night and was so emotional about all the memories. And then Sarah, bless her female little heart, started crying too.

With Steve and Nathan being empathetic, and Sarah and I both sniffling and Kleenex-ing, we all sat for about thirty minutes, and shared memories--both good and bad.

The well used Kleenex box.


Sarah remembered that she had sat in that very room when Steve and I told her she had relapsed. We all remembered our tears (even sobs) when the unspeakable news was spoken.

We reminisced about the times Nathan had gotten all dressed up to go to his school's formals. We talked about the phone call I got in February of 2008 saying that there was a 90- 95% chance I had breast cancer. We talked about birthday parties and sleep overs and how I used to come downstairs on a summer morning and look at all the flip flops and tennis shoes piled at the bottom of the stairs; that was the only way I had of knowing how many of Nathan's friends had camped out in his room overnight.

We talked about the parties and dinners we've had over the years and reminisced about Sarah dressing up for two Daddy/Daughter Dances and her Honor Star Crowning ceremony. We mentioned that Sarah was eight and Nathan was fourteen when they moved into this house and talked how much they have changed and grown up since then. We looked back at Nathan's 15th summer when he had mono and slept 12-14 hours a day for a couple months.

Nate and I also recalled a big talk we had in the living room a couple years ago as he grappled with whether he should go to the local community college or to Southeastern. After three hours of conversation I remember him saying, "I feel like I should go to Southeastern." And what a life altering decision that has been for him.

After we had all been talked out and cried out I said, "Okay. The first person to get up and leave the room will close this chapter of life (all of us living full time under the same room) and will usher in the new chapter."

No one moved. No one wanted it to end. No one wanted to acknowledge that five years of life in our house in Smithfield was morphing into something different, something new, something unknown.

We sat in the silence and looked around at the room, looked around at each other, looked behind us, looked ahead of us. We reluctantly came to the realization that we couldn't keep on reading a chapter that had already ended; we could only turn the page and find new memories on the new pages.

Steve slowly stood up. And then Nathan. And they walked out of the living room, leaving Sarah and I behind. With the memories. And the tears. And the joy. And the promise of new chapters and new last nights yet to be written.