Thursday, March 03, 2016

Bill and the Toledo to Santa Cruz Move

Although our main home continues for now to be Scotland, for the past 9 and a half years we have maintained a house in Toledo, Ohio, as our US base.  In the meantime, our children finished university in Cleveland and went on to other parts of the US, leaving our old house as a kind of orphan. 

About a year ago, however, we decided it was time to think about getting rid of the Toledo house and moving our US base to Santa Cruz, California. Since last April, we have made five trips to sort through the possessions that we left behind when we moved to Scotland.  We gave away at least half of our books and all of our music CDs; we decommissioned 6 old computers and confidentially shredded psychotherapy data sets; we persuaded our children to return to the family home to sort through their boxes of old toys and school papers; and so on and so on. 

Two days ago, I arrived in Toledo from Scotland, with 13 hours of accumulated jet lag, having only two days before that flown back from Singapore.  There I joined Diane, who had been here for a week doing final sorts and packing.  We spent a very long day yesterday scouring the house from top to bottom looking for things we’d missed (these were numerous and sometimes surprising) and packing these up.  We finished up about 9:30 pm.

This morning, 12 hours later, Bill Frizzell and his bearded crew showed up to take the 100+ boxes and load them onto their enormous moving van, which he parked like a supertanker on our little street in suburban Toledo. Bill, who is driving our stuff to California along with 4 other loads, turns out to also be a former music minister and an occasional country singer, full of stories and at least one very nice song, which he pointed me to: . (Also, a song called "Shake Your Head", which he said has been popular in Scotland, even Radio Clyde, backed by his autistic nephew on drums and guitar.) He even stopped to help my neighbor whose tire was almost flat. From a European perspective, this might sound so working-class middle America as to almost be cliche, except that it felt wonderful. Somehow, I feel like our stuff, not particularly valuable but full of memories precious to us, is in good hands. 

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