Darling Wife and I continue to make preparations in keeping with our stated purpose to migrate back across the country next year. It has long been our intention to sell most of our furniture, saving only a few choice items, like our bed, which would free us from our material burdens and make our flight considerably easier. This measure would allow us, in theory, to transport the remainder of our household goods in a POD, and drive ourselves and our canine companions across the plain in our roomy sedan.
As the end of the month approaches, and bill-paying time is once again upon us, financial thoughts and budgeting aspects fill my waking hours. Consequently, I contacted PODS this past weekend to get a price quote for our relocation. The courteous and helpful British woman I spoke to took all of the specifics and told me - brace yourself- that it would cost $4, 305! I promptly hung up the phone.
Can you fathom it? That is an outrageous fee when we'd still have the expense of transporting ourselves, and we would have all of the packing, loading, and unloading to do. I think you could almost hire professional movers for such a sum.
So I turned to the poor man's moving friend, U-Haul. Darling Wife and I drove such a vehicle across this vast nation of ours when we moved to CA more than three years ago, and it was not an experience I wanted to repeat. Driving the distance isn't so bad - we'11 be doing that anyway - but doing it in a moving truck is not fun. The winds on the deserts and prairies struggle to turn you over or push you off the road the entire time, and it's a constant struggle to keep the contents of the truck from shifting around turns. I can handle it, of course, but I really didn't want to if there were any other way. We also have the car now, which we didn't have before, and which we'll have to pull that behind us. That adds additional difficulties to the driving. And then there are the dogs; having two dogs in a moving truck for almost 3,000 miles doesn't sound appealing either. But what are we to do?
According to U-haul's website, we'll get nine days to load and unload the truck and make the cross-country journey. That's a bit tight, don't you think? And it will cost almost $1, 500 for the truck, another $450 for the car trailer, plus there's the considerable expense of gas. So we're still looking at over $2, 000 even with this "cheaper" option.
It's almost enough to make us want to sell all of our belongings, save our money, and start fresh once we return to the civilized east. Fear not, I haven't exhausted all options yet. I just needed to vent.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Those we leave behind
My grandmother is dying. Have I told you that?
Don't worry. I've made my peace with it. She is old, turned 90 this year. She has had a good life; she'd tell you that herself. Her father died when she was only a small child; she lived through the depression; and she literally nursed her husband through fifteen years of deteriorating health and dialysis after he suffered complete kidney failure. But she was happy. I seldom recall her without a twinkle in her eye and a song in her voice. And now her own health has been declining. She is weak, can hardly hear, and her mind is... what is the term... going? She's scarcely been cognizant of the realities of the outside world for at least two years. My memories of my father's mother are of a robust and opinionated woman who loved God, her family, and her home. She was simple, faithful, strong. This... shell... this mortal coil that remains is not my grandmother. It is not even a shadow of her; I do not recognize it. She deserves better than this shallow existence, confined to a bed, undressing herself in the middle of a crowded living room on the rare occasions when she rises, and she, the most prudish person I've ever known. She used to stitch extra lace or a bit of fabric into the necks of her dresses to avoid showing skin below the chin. That proud and happy woman has been gone for some time, and I have mourned her already. I honestly pray daily for her release.
But recently her worsening condition required my father, sister, and I to travel down to the farm house in northeastern Mississippi to make some arrangements with my aunt and clean up a few things. It felt weird going back. I haven't lived in the South for six years, haven't set foot in it at all for nearly two, and haven't been to the farm in over three. Those who read this blog know how much that farm means to me, but I am a stranger to it now. I once thought I would always be Southern no matter where I lived, no matter who else I became, but I confess I had almost forgotten what it was like. Living amongst the palm trees of California, it is Boston that my heart longs for. The South had been relegated to the past along with other ephemeral dreams of boyhood.
But oh, how the smell of the place stirred the echoes, like summer's cast off leaves caught in autumn's chill winds, dead but still resplendent, moving and palpable, their vibrant colors belying their lack of vitality. I expected the trip would allow me to take my leave of the farm, say goodbye to my grandmother and my childhood, but I found myself again and again searching for signs of my grandfather about the place, pushing through the accumulation of decades to find an article of clothing, his handwriting in a Bible. He is the one the farm conjures for me most vividly, despite the intervening years since his death, and I realized as we drove back to Tennessee listening to my father's tales of his childhood that it is for my grandfather I have wept when I have seen the utter disrepair of the place. It is because of my grandfather that I have refused to relinquish my hold on it... or it on me. He died in September of1985, but even after twenty three years, it is my grandfather I have not ceased to mourn.
He was an extraordinary person. I know many people believe this about their parents or grandparents, and I certainly know he had his fault, like any man. But my grandfather has always been a sort of hero to me. I have always wished to be more like him. He was quiet for the most part, seldom speaking, but speaking with authority and assurance when he spoke. He was smart and prudent, always making the right moves to keep the farm prosperous. He was firm with his rules, but kind in his consequences. He guided and taught with a light hand and never minded when we made mistakes. And best of all, we never knew exactly when his boyish penchant for mischief would break out from his dour countenance with a sly grin as we passed him in the hallway or on the front porch. Then would come the sudden lurch, a pinched buttock, a child's gleeful squirm and wriggle of escape, and then a rapid return in the hopes that we would be seized again. When I was a child, people said I looked like him, and with a boy's vanity, I was overly pleased with the observation. At his funeral, people packed the small country church sanctuary, spilled out to fill the hallway outside, and covered the sidewalk beyond the building's front doors. My grandfather in his quiet way loved deeply and encouraged an abiding love in others.
Of course, I didn't think of all this at the time. It seemed natural that being on the farm would make me think of him... would make all of us think of him. It was only upon returning to California that it hit me. It was my grandfather I was letting go of when I bid farewell to my grandmother and her home... my home, the home of my family for generations beyond memory. Its people and landscape have been my ties to him for my entire life, distant but comforting in their solidity.
Goodbye, Granddaddy. We will miss you. I... miss you.
Don't worry. I've made my peace with it. She is old, turned 90 this year. She has had a good life; she'd tell you that herself. Her father died when she was only a small child; she lived through the depression; and she literally nursed her husband through fifteen years of deteriorating health and dialysis after he suffered complete kidney failure. But she was happy. I seldom recall her without a twinkle in her eye and a song in her voice. And now her own health has been declining. She is weak, can hardly hear, and her mind is... what is the term... going? She's scarcely been cognizant of the realities of the outside world for at least two years. My memories of my father's mother are of a robust and opinionated woman who loved God, her family, and her home. She was simple, faithful, strong. This... shell... this mortal coil that remains is not my grandmother. It is not even a shadow of her; I do not recognize it. She deserves better than this shallow existence, confined to a bed, undressing herself in the middle of a crowded living room on the rare occasions when she rises, and she, the most prudish person I've ever known. She used to stitch extra lace or a bit of fabric into the necks of her dresses to avoid showing skin below the chin. That proud and happy woman has been gone for some time, and I have mourned her already. I honestly pray daily for her release.
But recently her worsening condition required my father, sister, and I to travel down to the farm house in northeastern Mississippi to make some arrangements with my aunt and clean up a few things. It felt weird going back. I haven't lived in the South for six years, haven't set foot in it at all for nearly two, and haven't been to the farm in over three. Those who read this blog know how much that farm means to me, but I am a stranger to it now. I once thought I would always be Southern no matter where I lived, no matter who else I became, but I confess I had almost forgotten what it was like. Living amongst the palm trees of California, it is Boston that my heart longs for. The South had been relegated to the past along with other ephemeral dreams of boyhood.
But oh, how the smell of the place stirred the echoes, like summer's cast off leaves caught in autumn's chill winds, dead but still resplendent, moving and palpable, their vibrant colors belying their lack of vitality. I expected the trip would allow me to take my leave of the farm, say goodbye to my grandmother and my childhood, but I found myself again and again searching for signs of my grandfather about the place, pushing through the accumulation of decades to find an article of clothing, his handwriting in a Bible. He is the one the farm conjures for me most vividly, despite the intervening years since his death, and I realized as we drove back to Tennessee listening to my father's tales of his childhood that it is for my grandfather I have wept when I have seen the utter disrepair of the place. It is because of my grandfather that I have refused to relinquish my hold on it... or it on me. He died in September of1985, but even after twenty three years, it is my grandfather I have not ceased to mourn.
He was an extraordinary person. I know many people believe this about their parents or grandparents, and I certainly know he had his fault, like any man. But my grandfather has always been a sort of hero to me. I have always wished to be more like him. He was quiet for the most part, seldom speaking, but speaking with authority and assurance when he spoke. He was smart and prudent, always making the right moves to keep the farm prosperous. He was firm with his rules, but kind in his consequences. He guided and taught with a light hand and never minded when we made mistakes. And best of all, we never knew exactly when his boyish penchant for mischief would break out from his dour countenance with a sly grin as we passed him in the hallway or on the front porch. Then would come the sudden lurch, a pinched buttock, a child's gleeful squirm and wriggle of escape, and then a rapid return in the hopes that we would be seized again. When I was a child, people said I looked like him, and with a boy's vanity, I was overly pleased with the observation. At his funeral, people packed the small country church sanctuary, spilled out to fill the hallway outside, and covered the sidewalk beyond the building's front doors. My grandfather in his quiet way loved deeply and encouraged an abiding love in others.
Of course, I didn't think of all this at the time. It seemed natural that being on the farm would make me think of him... would make all of us think of him. It was only upon returning to California that it hit me. It was my grandfather I was letting go of when I bid farewell to my grandmother and her home... my home, the home of my family for generations beyond memory. Its people and landscape have been my ties to him for my entire life, distant but comforting in their solidity.
Goodbye, Granddaddy. We will miss you. I... miss you.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Of Finances, Friends, and Formation of the Mind
It would be a gross understatement to claim that I have been busy. Of course, we are all busy, and at any rate, I am always busy. But I must say that I have been particularly busy of late.*
Darling Wife and I entertained house guests for the better part of last week, and I have been nearly o'rwhelmed with school work since their departure. We are also expecting another guest this weekend. None of these circumstances has been or will be lamented. Quite the contrary, most of it has been and, I hope, will continue to be highly enjoyable. But it does rather tax one's energies and stretch one's budget.
Speaking of which, it being the end of one month and the beginning of another, I have been cooking the books, as the saying goes. Things in that quadrant are not as bleak as in times past. They are steadily improving. But I must confess that all of this focus on dollars and cents, pennies and pounds tires me something awful. I try to live by the maxim of Mr. Micawber: "Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen nineteen six, result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pounds ought and six, result misery." But we are not talking about twenty pounds with an odd six pence on either side. It is alarming to consider the thousands that come in and out of a modestly small household like ours in the course of a single month so that even when the expenditure doesn't exceed the income, just dealing with it all runs one perilously close to misery. I can't help but think that there have to be ways to simplify matters without going to the extreme of living in an old bus in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness.
*I have also been watching the HBO series "John Adams" on DVD, and it may have affected my syntax a touch. :)
Darling Wife and I entertained house guests for the better part of last week, and I have been nearly o'rwhelmed with school work since their departure. We are also expecting another guest this weekend. None of these circumstances has been or will be lamented. Quite the contrary, most of it has been and, I hope, will continue to be highly enjoyable. But it does rather tax one's energies and stretch one's budget.
Speaking of which, it being the end of one month and the beginning of another, I have been cooking the books, as the saying goes. Things in that quadrant are not as bleak as in times past. They are steadily improving. But I must confess that all of this focus on dollars and cents, pennies and pounds tires me something awful. I try to live by the maxim of Mr. Micawber: "Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen nineteen six, result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pounds ought and six, result misery." But we are not talking about twenty pounds with an odd six pence on either side. It is alarming to consider the thousands that come in and out of a modestly small household like ours in the course of a single month so that even when the expenditure doesn't exceed the income, just dealing with it all runs one perilously close to misery. I can't help but think that there have to be ways to simplify matters without going to the extreme of living in an old bus in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness.
*I have also been watching the HBO series "John Adams" on DVD, and it may have affected my syntax a touch. :)
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