Samain Moving Moon
The van, a large blue and white Stevens Moving Van, parked at our driveway at 8:30 am this morning. Three packers have come and lamps, chairs, boxes, garden tools have begun to disappear from the house, swallowed up by a moving rectangle attached to a powerful V-8.
The packers are a Latino, an African-American and a white guy with a large bushy red beard. I don’t envy them their job, having done it for a week or so when I was 21. It’s heavy, steady, difficult work.
Richard is all business, roaming the house with his clipboard and his role of inventory tags. He has on a coat and a stocking hat, probably the only one on his block in West Palm Beach who owns such clothing. Everything that goes on the truck gets a tag and a note on the inventory page. This is a labor intensive process, no wonder it costs so much.
There is a finality to this day. It puts a large red Ready or Not Here We Go on our foreheads. We are ready.
This morning about 3:30 am I realized we had to take the dog crates in the cargo van. If we don’t, we’d have movers going in out of our new house, up and down the stairs to my loft, followed close by with dogs.