June 30, 2004
Moving tale: Bubble wrap and boxes
By
Herald Editor
Some people live out of a suitcase. My abode these days is a banana box.
This weekend I made a painful discovery: packing up your worldly belongings into corrugated cardboard boxes is an exercise in futility. It also does wonders for the thoracic vertebrae.
First the good news: we sold our house. Unfortunately, six years of accumulated homeownership wasn't included in the sales contract. So now we have 14 days to pack up 11 years of marital bliss into umpteen boxes that will be squeezed into a 10x30 foot storage space. The last part is necessary because the new roof over our heads needs, well, a roof- right after the walls are constructed.
The only thing saving us from sleeping in our banana boxes is the time-honored tradition of mooching off a relative. Thanks to Uncle Bill, I'll be mowing the lawn and hanging up on telemarketers for the next three months in Benzonia.
Right now, however, I'm still knee deep in leaf rakes, frying pans and underwear. Of course if it weren't for my wife, those items would go in the same box. When it comes to packing, women are from earth and men another planet. The XX packer cocoons wedding china in three-ply bubble wrap. Given the same item, the XY packer would choose white tube socks - perhaps out of the dirty clothes hamper.
While chromosomes are a packing X factor, age also plays a role.
Throughout my early twenties, I traveled with only a duffel bag in tow. The toughest part about carting off my worldly goods to college was squeezing the stereo system into the backseat of my 1974 Buick Regal. The rest was simply milk crate furniture and leaky bean bag chairs.
Along with the first real job, came the first big move of adulthood - the apartment. Our first place was a 400 square foot hovel above our landlord's head. The place was fully furnished, which meant the wedding gifts we crammed into our hatchback Nova stayed boxed for 12 months. Thankfully, we didn't own a stick of furniture.
The place was so small, you could change TV channels while sitting in the Burnt Orange La-Z-Boy - without using a remote control.
Our next apartment offered us more elbow room (as in more than one elbow could fit on the kitchen table). It also meant moving our first couch, bed, dresser and plenty of et cetera up three flights of stairs. Of course what goes up, must eventually come down into the U-Haul.
By our third apartment, the packing luster reached the limits of Dullsville.
While moving into our first house was fun, vacating said house is a killjoy. This time the greatest challenge is not negotiating an eight foot armoire through a six foot door. Defying physics is child's play compared to packing around a two-year-old. Our daughter's idea of helping pack is staying up 14 hours without a nap, popping bubble wrap and stuffing Elmo in boxes marked fragile.
Thankfully, the Villager II won't see the darkness of a self storage facility.
When the big moving day finally dawns, we will trade empty rooms for fulfilling memories. Before I lock the door, I'll leave one banana box behind for the new home owner. Inside they will find bubble wrap and white tube socks - for whoever packs the china years from now.
Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail gleiva@gtherald.com