A Moving Day

On Saturday I transferred all my worldly possessions from the old place to the new one, hung up my good clothes, and met my new roommates Padrick and Doug. (Padrick is actually the correct spelling, no matter what spellcheck says--it's Irish, he says.) After two recent moves my miscellaneous unsorted junk, the plastic bag of rubber bands, a handful of unsorted photographs and old billing statements, fits in one small box. Moving is good for your personal economy; it reduces clutter and demands a flurry of organization, and such prompts are a good thing in our cluttered lives. For a few days you have to live like a soldier on a march, and the experience can clear out your head and heart as well as your closet. All my laundry is done and everything is folded; my mother is beaming down at me from heaven. God, I wish you could walk into her house. There was such a state of antiseptic clean and perfect order--a doctor could have performed surgery in her garage, it was that clean. The floors, the counters, the cupboards and even the remotest corners of the refrigerator, impeccably stain and odor-free, no trace of dirt, spill, crumb or smudge. At any hour of any day throughout her life the entire house spelled of Lysol and bleach and Lemon Pledge. She was remarkable and efficient and fiercely proud, a wonder of purpose.

These remarks are not a judgement of anyone else. Lord knows I inherited none of her fierce devotion to order and spotlessness: I make the bed once every two months. You could even argue Mom could have relaxed a little at some point, or reordered her life to channel that remarkable energy to some other hope. I certainly don't expect anyone else to live as she did or clean with the same relentless discipline. I'd rather you sat down with me and had a glass of wine. My only purpose in writing this down is to remember her the way she was, to put it down the way it happened. The Aborigines of Australia have a ritual they call the Walk About: they tour their lands as a group, and recite the history of their place and their people. "Remember, remember," the old ones tell the young. We must. It's the only way to find our way home, to know what home should be after the boxes are unpacked from moving day.

On my way out of town I stopped at the Ace Hardward in Parkrose to get copies of my room and house key made. When you are The Most Absent Minded Person in the World that is a necessary and immediate precaution, one that wards off a certain disaster of being locked out in the rain on the worst possible day. Just the presence of the extra set somehow defeats the evil genie of forgetfulness. I have to do little things like this. When I go to my daughter's I set my wallet, cell phone and my keys in my shoes at the front door, because here I don't have an assigned place for them and I would mislay them for sure.

I always go to Ace in Parkrose rather than the big box retailer. Some of the clerks there have worked there 12 years and they know where things are. I walked in the door and two of them said hello. "Where do I go to get keys made?" I asked. The older man at the information desk in a blue Parkrose hardware uniform smock looked up and smiled and turned behind him. "You just go straight back to the back of the store, to the counter under that sign that says Customer Service." Another clerk overheard us, a grey-haired guy with a friendly demeanor. "What were you looking for?" he asked. I need to get some keys copied, I said. "I'll meet you right back there," he said, and turned out the keys in two minutes. When I got to the front counter a third clerk opened another checkstand for me. Folks, it isn't rocket science, but that's how you run a business, and those are the kind of people you hire when you do. Where do think I will go when I need a new hammer, some lawn clipping bags, or ice scraper for the Vista Cruiser? I guarantee you it won't be Hardware-R-Us. But somebody must be going there because they keep building them, right down the street from the Costco in every town. It's a mystery to me, but then many things are.

I wish somebody from Parkrose Hardware worked at T-Immobile, Maybe I could get cell phone service that actually worked. I had another Nightmare Customer Experience in one of their sales outlets this week, the one right next to my post office box store near 122nd and Division. The manager came out from the back room with an air of slouchy displeasure and said "May I help you?" in a voice that clearly indicated she'd rather be doing anything but, maybe getting back to the game of Freecell in her office, or the email to her new best guy ever. I want to cancel my service I said. "Okay." she replied, just like that, without the faintest trace of curiosity or concern. I handed her my phone. "I just had four calls fail on the sidewalk in front of your store. My cell phone bill last month was $185 and I can't make a phone call." I handed her my phone. "This phone is very old," she said. I bought it about eight months ago, and they made me sign a two-year contract when I did. They even read some of the lawyer language to make sure I knew it was ironclad and inescapable. Which would be fine, if the phones actually worked to make reliable phone calls in America's 35th largest city.

It went on like that for about 5 minutes, the Manager interrogating me about the age and condition of my phone and the status of my rate plan, no closer to solving my actual and longstanding problem, until finally I said, "You're very rude and contentious, and I can't wait till the day I can cancel this contract." And I took my phone from the counter and walked out of the store. Of course leaving in a huff insured another several weeks of the same lousy cell service, but at least I wouldn't have to be browbeaten by her anymore. She called out after me, chiefly to tidy up her version of the story, "Sir I'm sorry you feel that way I'm just trying to help you." No she wasn't. There's not a kilobyte of helpfulness in that whole abominable organization, from the mind-numbing automated customer service call sorting system with its recorded voice activation, "Please press 1, or say 'English.'" to the 40-page indecipherable billing statements. I don't know what I got for my $185 last month, but I have a lot of paperwork to prove it. And 10 dropped calls a day. Stop me if you've heard this before. I just figured out a way to make my first million and buy the house down the street form Doug's: I'll start a website called t-immobilestinks.com. I'll have a million hits, go viral, get my picture in Wired magazine. Maybe Gretchen can go with me down to another store and get this resolved for me; I don't have the patience and I just make it worse. She has a way with these types of situations. Most women do, a knack for refocusing attention on the issue that should truly be at hand, a way of cutting through the crap. I think it comes from several sources. Women are hard-wired for communication; they have more brain cells and more connections in the corpus colossum, and they listen more. Then there are the years of sifting out whining and excuses, first from their husbands and then their children. It's a remarkable gift, really, one that could save American commerce if we allowed it free reign. American moms should be hired to send underperforming managers to their rooms to finish their homework and straighten their closets, and no tv until sales improve. It might work.

Enough of that. I'm sorry I got myself started again. Where was I? Oh yeah, the hardware store. I paid for my keys and walked over to Subway next door because by now it was 4:30 and I hadn't eaten anything all day except a small bowl of Frosted Flakes with half and half (the Wheelers were out of milk) and some Ritz crackers. The sandwich was heavenly. Hunger is the best sauce, no matter where you wander on your quest, or what sort of windmills put you on tilt. I stopped at work for a minute to throw away a bag of trash (free trash service is one of our employee benefits, a useful and thus far untaxable perk), called Stephanie (wow, the call actually went through) and headed east on Marine Drive along the Columbia to see the grandbabies and my smart, funny and beautiful daughter. The small cares and irritations of daily life faded as I began the trip, through the Columbia Gorge, which I have remarked on before as a Holy and awe-inspiring place. The ever-changing landscape, carved by time and the wind and the river, relatively unspoiled, cannot fail or cease to move you. "Open the eyes of my heart," the song says, and in such a place your eyes and your heart cannot fail to open if you just look around. The God who made us is greater than anything we could imagine. His vision and artistry is breathtaking, humbling and unspeakably rich. I listened to the music and took in the beautiful sights of the Gorge and the high plateau and the mountains, and stopped in Goldendale for a perfect strawberry milkshake spun by a kid named Jeffie at the Dairy Queen off Highway 97. "How is it?" he asked, really wanting to know. "Perfect," I said, "You are milkshake master, a milkshake Jedi." "I'm glad you're enjoying it," he said with a big smile, and I could tell he genuinely was. When he finishes high school Jeffie should be appointed CEO of T-immobile. They could use one employee like him. It might reverse their dwindling market share, though it's probably too late. Their other 685,000 employees have already done too much damage. The exact number doesn't matter. You get the idea.

I got to Selah around 8:30 in the evening. I'd made good time. The Vista Cruiser is so much fun to drive on long trips, with the top down and the cruise control on and the sound system turned up to 11. I never bring CDs; I like to spin the FM dial by pressing "seek" and just see what comes up, jazz from KMHD until Cascade Locks, Christian Rock until The Dalles, a pop mix format until I reach the mountains, with Fleetwood Mac and The Doobie Brothers, stuff that takes me back to my misspent youth and early adulthood and the birth of my smart funny and beautiful daughter, then Country from Toppenish from the mountains to parking lot of Sav-On foods. I always stop at Sav-On to call Steff and buy some fruit and razors and a bottle of wine, ask if they need anything from the store. They just wanted some Gatorade for the swim meet tomorrow. Kourtney has improved her time in freestyle by 10 seconds this summer, and she had three new ribbons to show me.

Ethan is chunker, a big happy baby with kissy cheeks. He's looking around now and he studied my face intently with his big blue eyes. He smiled when I sang to him. It was just before bed and he was a little fussy, but finally settled down to nurse sweetly while I shaved and took a shower. His father Thomas played him a few songs on the guitar and put him to bed. I sat up with Tom and Steff a while and we talked. He may be reassigned to a teaching post in Alabama where the Army needs instructors in explosives. He's one of twelve finalists but he doesn't want to go. Here in Selah they are a few hours from his family in Montana and few hours from Stephanie's, and he wants to stay in the field. Life for military families is subject to dramatic and uncertain change. He might be deployed next fall; there's no way to know. Every day at work I speak to mothers and wives who have young men who are half a world away in terrible uncertainty, and your heart has to go out to all of them. Thomas wants to hold his son like all of them, but beginning next week he has an assignment that will have him in the California desert for 35 days. Fully realizing that many other young men and women are in a much harsher desert for a much longer time, he goes where he is told to go. We can all do no better.

We talked a while longer until everyone got tired. The household has to get up at 6:00 am for the swim meet and I see it is that time now as I write. They're getting a puppy for Ethan to grow up with, a Siberian Husky. Thomas had one when he was a boy, and says they are particularly good with kids, loyal and gentle. He knows the family where the dog was born, they've raised three generations of these dogs and raise them gently and with care, an ideal pedigree all by itself. Stephanie and Thomas are having discussions about whether she should go back to work. She has mixed feelings; Thomas wants her to do whatever will make her happy, Stephanie's mother thinks it's vital for her daughter to have a purpose and independence and is steadfastly against her staying home. I'm Switzerland in this matter, but I see how Ethan is thriving, and I've never seen Stephanie more happy or more serene. All I know is that it is a joy to be among them, and I'm looking forward to an Egg McMuffin and the age group freestyle. I'll let you know how it goes.

Today was moving day and it was a complete success. I was thorougly moved, and my good clothes are hanging in my new closet. Thank you for helping me get settled.