Tag Archives: moving

Lessons from a move are never learned. They just fade away . . .

As I look back, here’s what I’ve learned with this move

images1)  Moving is even worse than I remembered.   I didn’t want to move. Before I made that decision,  I recalled that every move I’ve made–except those way back when I possessed so little everything  fit in the trunk of my car–has been horrible.  One of my friends said that God did everything to get me to move and that took a great deal but, fortunately, God’s will is omnipotently stronger than mine.

2)    I never give away enough when I downsize.   When George and I moved from the house at Buchanan Dam with a shed and carport, I had that planned out with a place for every piece of furniture marked with tape.   But not on this move.   I’d given so much away, I felt sure there would be plenty of room.  Somehow over the two months before I moved here, the apartment got smaller.  As the movers brought in boxes, they laughed, a lot, about how I was going to get these piles of boxes into this much smaller place.  I had to call a junk company to carry off a large piece of the computer desk so I could move from my study to my bed without having to climb over furniture.   I’ve also made several trips to the Salvation Army with the trunk of my car full of little stuff.  And all those baskets I mentioned in an earlier blog?  I hope the Salvation Army has use for about twenty of them.

3)  Friends are wonderful.  Many, many thanks to those who gave of their time and muscles and boxes to help.  I couldn’t have done without them.

Yes, I’m here and am thrilled by the new possibilities.  I feel safer with an extra level of security.  In the previous apartment, the turnover was so great, I didn’t know anyone but the noisy neighbors overhead who delighted in bothering  the old witch downstairs    Here, there are no hyperactive children or crazily macho fathers and the soundproofing is great.   The pool is larger and heated and there are people who want to get to know their neighbors.  

What I’ve learned is that moving can take me to a better place and I’m really happy about that.  What doesn’t make me so happy is that moving takes three months out of my life every time!

Any uplifting stories of moves you’d like to share?

 

Why in the world did I ever keep that?

imagesAs I sort and toss and pack, I wonder, “Has that always looked so bad?”   Yesterday, this thought came because of the breadbox which I’ve had for probably twenty years.    It’s dirty and just plain ugly.  Yes, I could wash it but ugly can’t be fixed.    Also, I no longer eat much bread, certainly not enough to take up a few feet of counter space.   George did.  He liked different flavors of bread.  But not me.  It’s in the back of the car to take to Goodwill in case they believe it’s salvageable.

Perhaps finding old stuff that has gradually become unsightly is a way of telling us, “Hey, you’re getting old” or nagging us, “Time to move on.”

Many years ago, we were attempting to sell our house.  We’d had the sofa for a long time and knew the fabric underneath and concealing the springs had torn and brushed against the carpet.  Probably a cat had enjoyed pulling herself along with that.   For whatever reason, the dangling cloth didn’t bother us.   It DID bother the real estate agent.  As soon as he walked in, he said, “Get rid of that sofa.”   I asked, “Won’t the room look odd without it?”  He said, “Not as bad as it does now.”

And perhaps that’s a positive outcome of a move: we can get rid of the stuff that shows wear, that reminds us time is passing but also reminds us for a few minutes of good memories.

The definition of insanity . . .

noisy neighbor 2Some of you may remember my postings on Facebook nearly a year ago about the new and very noisy neighbors upstairs.  We lived in this apartment for six years with no problem with the family upstairs.    A few months after George died, that family left and the cacophonous family with enormous horse feet moved in above us.  For a few months, I joked about this on FB.  Then, working with the manager of the complex, I thought the problem was solved.  I even took them cupcakes to thank the two boys (ages seven and nine, probably) for being so cooperative.   I even signed a lease for another year because I’d thought the problem was sloved and I’ve always heard, “Don’t make a big decision like moving within a year of the death of a husband.”

The noise started again exactly two days after the lease took effects:  a kickball game with the two sons and their very large cousin.    I complained, the parents told the manager they paid rent and could do whatever they wanted in their apartment.  Other tenants told me they referred to me as “the ** * * * downstairs.”

I didn’t believe I could leave.   The cost of breaking the lease and moving was more than I could afford.   Also, my health wasn’t good enough for me to consider moving.  Moving is my least, least, least favorite thing in the world other than people who put nuts in fudge.

In May, the management moved the family to another apartment. Peace, blessed peace, reigned for three weeks.  Then another family moved in with a sweet little girl and an eleven-year-old boy who has springs on his feet, a living, constantly in motion pogo stick.   This time, I addressed the problem immediately.   On the second evening of broomcontinuous thud, bang, thump,  I pounded on the ceiling with a broom–a signal the preceding family ignored.   Within seconds, I heard a knock on the door.  It was the father, a young, tall and muscular young man.

First, he lied to me, said they were all watching a movie when I pounded on the ceiling.  Yes,  I pound on the ceiling because I’m attempting to build my upper-body strength.   Then the husband attempted to intimidate me.  He leaned over me, obviously much stronger and healthier than I.   He said he liked his kids to be rowdy and didn’t care about me.  Then he said, “If you think there’s a lot of noise now . . . ”  He stopped and glared at me.  I took that as a threat that I’d better shut up or he’d join in the running and jumping.

definition of insanity 2I was hysterical, a little crazy.  Went into my apartment and shook.  Then, I experienced enlightenment.   “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”  Those people upstairs were never going to be quiet.  Never.   They wouldn’t change but I could.

The next day I started looking for a place in an independent living center.  My criteria were   1)  pet friendly   2)  swimming pool    3) Cat-tree affordable.

The next week, I found one.   I’ll be going from a three-bedroom apartment (or, as our friend Ron always said, “A one-bedroom, two-study apartment”) to a one bedroom with heated pool and accepting of the cats.    The Salvation Army is going to haul of some furniture off in August and friends are coming to help sort and pack and carry to Goodwill or the dumpster.   I move in early September.  Yes, it will cost.    I’ve blogged on the fact that I’m very, very cheap and paying to break the lease is painful.  However, I decided my mental/physical  health and my ability to write come first.  It’s difficult to be creative when there’s a kid overhead wearing cement blocks on his feet and doing jumping jacks.

One of the best parts:  the apartment is only three minutes from church.

That’s what I’ve been doing for two weeks:  making changes and writing novels.   I’m happy and optimistic.

Any experiences you’d like to share about your neighbors?  I hope they are all good.