All the rain Sunday (and let's get that annual winter math drill out of the way now: 'If all the rain we had, had been snow, how much snow would it have been?' NONE, if we lived in Florida or Hawaii. I HATE that question) with the overnight low temperatures we had around here yesterday morning turned sidewalks and roads into slightly dicey (rhymes with icy) propositions to get around on here in SE Connecticut for a good part of the morning.
I helped (=stood out of the way) as Thelma and Louise staged their end of the semester tactical withdrawal from Eastern State Connecticut State University where Michelle, about to enter her final semester as a senior, has been residing on campus since she was twelve, or so it feels (I know it hasn't been that long; I like to see if I can get a rise out her).
That was Sunday's project-to fill up the Forester with as much of her stuff as would fit, and then some, shuttle it back home to Norwich, and unload the boxes onto the kitchen floor. In my house, if one of us has learned anything after thirty-two plus years of marriage to the other one, it is to NEVER let your partner put ANYTHING away because he just moved here and has no idea where stuff goes.
There are items I 'helped' (someone else's word) unpack when we arrived from Germany that have yet to see the light of day in this Brave, New World. It's not my fault. Only the strong survive, I guess. Anyway, the problem Sunday was rain, and since I'm not a witch and am in no danger of melting, it was little problem at all.
Yesterday, as part of my be nice to the people I work with program, I had the day off and offered to help my son move into his studio apartment in the Crocker House on State Street in New London. It is very nice and is in downtown. New London, Connecticut, reminds me of New Brunswick, New Jersey, in terms of ambiance but it doesn't have a Greasy Tony's at the corner of Easton and Somerset Avenues. Tony's was across the street from Carroll's, an attempted hamburger fast-food joint that saw itself as a chain in competition with Mickey D's; sadly (for them) no one else did and simply drove them into the ground, sales-wise.
The early morning loading and unloading was a bit more ginger than might have been expected or desired (especially the latter) because of the smooth as glass finish on so many of the surfaces Patrick and I were walking on, lugging boxes and bags of swellness. Pat correctly pointed out that the only time you really appreciate how much stuff you have is when you have to pack it all to move. As someone who, himself, has a lot of stuff, let me be the first to agree with my son on that assertion.
I think I like it better that he lives 'in the city' (=buildings much closer together than farther away) as opposed to where he was in a rural area about fifteen minutes from the Foxwoods casino. It's very pretty country, winding roads, lots of flora and fauna, Laurel and Hardy, Tinker and Evans, ham and eggs and--well, you get the idea, especially if you like solitude. Actually, only if you like solitude.
He had friends coming later in the day with a box truck to help move the 'big stuff' because when you have son who is twenty-seven, there's an excellent chance you yourself are somewhat of a doddering fossil so, as was the case the day before with your daughter, after a while, even you start to wonder just how much help to these vital and marvelous fully-equipped young adult persons whom you helped create, you're actually being. I'm glad by mid-morning, when my part of the helping was done, it was warm enough that the perspiration in my eyes (my sister Jill used to say that all the time; she never cried) didn't freeze on my cheeks. Don't know about you, but I just hate that.
-bill kenny
No comments:
Post a Comment