Musings
an Online Journal of Sorts

By Alyce Wilson

Usually, I write my Musings while walking my dog, Una, in the mornings. But today we're dealing with driving rain, so I'm inside, with gray light filtering through the window, trying to get my thoughts together before the daunting blank slate of a white, white page.

Or, as the case may be, periwinkle.

Forgive the drama. Gray days do that to me.

On Saturday, we helped our friends, The Martial Artist and The Book Lover, move into their first home. They were just married last year, and they found themselves a little red split level house in the sleepy suburbs an hour from the high-packed suburbia where The Gryphon and I live. I was initially under the impression that it was a ranch house, but was gently corrected by The Book Lover.

Whenever I hear the term "ranch house," I think it's going to be in the great wide open somewhere, with tumbleweeds blowing by the front door and cattle for neighbors. Considering how green the place is compared to the cluttered streets where the rest of us reside, it's a near enough comparison. The couple already has plans to get rid of the above ground pool and plant a bevy of trees.

The moving took place in two stages, loading and unloading. First, we loaded up a rental truck and a friend's pickup truck with the couple's gear from their shared apartment. Then we trucked it all about 45 minutes away to the little red house. This is only impressive when you consider that we did all of this, including a lengthy lunch break, before about 3 p.m.

Several things made the task easier. First, the couple had what they called "apartment furniture." Meaning the sort of stuff you accumulate over time to fill a need and not necessarily to hand off as family heirlooms: light weight, easy to disassemble and carry. Given that, as the Book Lover said, with a big grin on her face, she expects to stay in their little house for the next 40 years, she said they'll look for some "house furniture" as finances allow. Personally, I'd much rather help carry a do-it-yourself bookshelf from IKEA or Target than an ornate, monstrously heavy cherry antique.

Of course, the last time I helped anybody move it was the White Rabbit last summer, and at the time I was recuperating from a pectoral injury. This could explain why many people tried to load me up with lighter boxes and gear to take down. But I kept busy, going up those steps so many times to their third floor apartment that I won't need to hit the exercise machine in the gym this week!

As usual, people kept their spirits up by joking around as we worked. I amused myself by whistling show tunes while carrying heavy boxes, both to lift people's spirits and to instill an element of the absurd.

The Cheshire Cat and I got into an amusing conversation that started with him teasing me. I pretended to be upset and told him I was going to have The Gryphon beat him up. The Cheshire Cat, who is several inches taller than my 6-foot-tall boyfriend, The Gryphon, snickered at this prospect. So I suggested that, since The Gryphon was my champion, he should face off against The Cheshire Cat's wife, The Paper. The Cheshire Cat insisted she would still win, because "she'd bring a gun to a knife fight."

When I shared this story with her later, she agreed. She, incidentally, was helping The Gryphon to pack the truck, both of them having great organizational skills that were well used in that task.

The Book Lover had labeled all the boxes, many of which were white storage boxes bought at Staples. Most of the labels were fairly straightforward, but some caught us off-guard, such as one marked "Velociraptor" and another marked simply, "Surprise." We had a great time joking about these box labels, but I think some of us (OK, me) were starting to get a bit dizzy from the exercise.

The preteen daughters of The Cousin and her husband, The Photographer, came tearing in, at high octane energy levels, when that family arrived. The first alert to their arrival was The Book Lover running frantically into the apartment to retrieve her cat from the closet and put her in the cat carrier. At her request, I stepped out into the apartment so kitty wouldn't be spooked by a stranger's presence. Meanwhile, you could hear the high-pitched shrieks growing closer.

She managed to get kitty into her carrier shortly before the girls burst into the room, and they immediately knelt down and started peering and poking into the carrier. The Book Lover, audible relief in her voice, told them that the kitty was having a hard day and they wouldn't see much of her in the new place because she'd be closed off in her own room. They were welcome, she said, to say hello through the cat carrier. Kitty seemed happy for the protective grill.

To make themselves useful, since most of the things were a little too heavy for them, the girls initially stood at the stop of the stairs, taking turns holding open the fire door for loaded down people coming through. But soon, they tired of this and sat at the top of the stairs, both peering intently at the portable video game system one of them was playing.

"You can be replaced by my butt, see?" I said as I emerged with a box, pushing the door open with my back side. It was intended to nudge them into resuming their duties, but they were unfazed.

"Cool. I can be replaced by a butt," the older one giggled, never looking up from her video game.

Within a relatively short amount of time, we'd grabbed everything of importance from the apartment. Only a few small leftover objects were left, most of which weren't packed into boxes but would comprise less than a trunk full. The Martial Artist handed out directions, and we met up again at the little red house.

Along the way, a guy with the exact same size rented truck was pulled over on the side of the road, fussing with the latch to the back door. The White Rabbit, who was driving Agent Smith, The Gryphon and I to the new place, pulled over behind him until we figured out it wasn't our friends.

"Who would be moving on a spring Saturday?" we joked.

Upon arrival, The Book Lover, who had left early to secret the kitty in a quiet room and to get lunch prepared, had an aromatic container of chili bubbling on the stove, prepared in advance by The Martial Artist, who is quite the cook. It was meat based, so I didn't try it, but I heard rave reviews. I opted for a cheese sandwich with hummus The Book Lover had thoughtfully bought, remembering my bringing it to the last girls weekend. There were lots of fruits and vegetables, which, along with filtered water, made for a filling, healthy lunch.

We all sat around the kitchen on stools and chairs, talking about features that the previous owners had changed and getting a short history of the place. We all found it particularly amusing that the stools had little cows on the legs to protect them from scratching the floor. The previous owners had left the stools behind. Either that or else they're halfway across the country right now, saying, "Did you pack the stools with the cows on the legs?"

Then it was back to work. First, the guys backed the rented truck into the driveway.

We set up a bucket brigade and handed boxes inside. I was one of the people inside who helped stack them on the floor. Again, people kept their spirits up by joking around. Most people were telling each other whether a box was heavy or light as it passed along. This was a one word directive, usually, but other words would slip in. For example, we had to stop the line as people laughed hysterically when The March Hare handed off a box marked "Lace" and instead of "heavy" or "light," declared in a dry tone, "porn."

Within a relatively short period of time, all the furniture was placed approximately where it belonged and all boxes were stacked in the living room or rec room. We relaxed again in the kitchen, joking about everything under the sun.

The Warrior Princess regaled us with stories about bad tenants who live in the buildings she rents in rural Pennsylvania. One of the worst was an elderly couple who refused to kick out their drug dealing son, even after he got into an altercation with somebody which involved a tire iron.

Upon hearing that the local law enforcement was failing to take action, The Cheshire Cat gave his humble suggestion: "Time to change the government. Or firebomb them."

"That's your solution to everything," I exclaimed, to appreciative laughter.

"Change the government. Firebomb them. Firebomb the government," Agent Smith contributed. The room descended into chaos.

NOTE: The author wishes it known that neither she nor The Cheshire Cat nor anyone present would actually firebomb the government. That would not be in the least bit funny, nor would it effectively resolve any outstanding landlord-tenant disputes.

At one point, the younger of the girls came tearing through, claiming that her sister was going to kill her. She pointed out the window. "See! She's got a stick!" We looked out the large kitchen window and saw the oldest child, a long thin branch in hand.

As the older child made her way to the back door, the younger girl took off with a shriek out the front. The older girl tried unsuccessfully to hide the stick behind her back. "Have you seen my sister?"

"Nope," we lied.

"And no sticks in the house," the Warrior Princess said, thus neatly defusing the problem of long sticks being wielded in rooms stacked high with all the possessions we had so carefully moved.

They contented themselves with playing a spinning game with their uncle, The White Rabbit, until they had worn him out.

"Hey, I said not to break him," I scolded.

The mood was generally lighthearted, all the work done. The Martial Artist even showed us his delicate little pet snake, which was not frightened by preteen girls, nor of The Martial Artist making kissy faces.

At this point, it occurred to me that I seldom remember to have anyone take a picture of me at such events. I had The Gryphon snap one of my looking at the pool. You would think by now I would have learned not to have photos taken in profile.

What do you know? The blank page is now filled with all sorts of letters, in combinations of words, formed into sentences. And while the gray sky rages on, I bid this prolifically filled page adieu and return to my previously scheduled tasks. Sorry. Gray day again.

Copyright 2005 by Alyce Wilson

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