Strange to think a business in Jackson, Michigan has been weaving it’s way through our lives since 1986. John moved to Jackson about 4 months before the rest of our family. But the rest of us went to Jackson for a long weekends every couple weeks. Hubs was staying at a new hotel called Budgetel, which was right next door to the Holiday Inn. When we were looking for a house, John would move to the Holiday Inn so the kids 16, 11, and 7 had a pool to enjoy. During one of those trips we would discover an ice cream shop which was pretty close to being world renown.

 

Several name changes, but always great treats…

It was called The Parlour, but had gone through several name changes, owners, and renovations since it’s humble beginning in the 1930’s. It was first called Loud and Jackson’s, then Jackson’s All-Star Dairy. Finally settled on The Parlour not too many years before we moved to Michigan. Greyhound busses with touring day trippers from all over Michigan, Ohio and Indiana would spend the day in Jackson. One of the highlights was always a stop at The Parlour. After a football or basketball game, it was nigh onto impossible to buy your favorite dish of ice cream. The lines outside, regardless of the weather were a block long. The required waitress uniforms when we became regular customers were scandalous. Very short red skirts, black cummerbund and a white blouse. Did I mention, the skirts were really, really short? Probably 3 inches longer than girls wear them now.

 

What a crock I found for Shannon a few years ago…

 

Shannon got a job there a few months after we moved. The Parlour was still making their own ice cream, and it was delicious. They carried about 30 flavors, including chocolate chip, bubblegum, strawberry, butter pecan like everyone else. But it was their custom made sundaes, shakes, banana splits where they excelled. A waist high extremely long freezer full of 5 gallon round brown tubs to choose from. The girls making these amazing concoctions had to have the strongest wrists in the world. Constantly dipping humongous fist size scoops. And nothing they made ever consisted of only one dip. Nothing.

 

Shannon in Parlour uniform, 1987…

 

We lived in Jackson for 7 years. And frequented The Parlour every couple weeks. One night Shannon came home after working a long, busy winter night at The Parlour, crying. In her haste to get to the freezing car with her skirt not covering very much of her, she set her plastic cup of tips on top of the car-and drove off. She was devastated over the loss of this extra money by the time she realized what had happened and got home. (Which was more than her hourly wage) Hubs grabbed his flashlight, and the bawling teen and hiked back to where she had parked her car. They spent over an hour picking up her hard earned tips.

 

Words fail me…

 

Naturally, after we moved about 160 miles west of Jackson to North Muskegon in 1994, our trips to The Parlour would be few and far between. They must have really missed our piddly business because The Parlour fell on hard times too. To the dismay of the hordes of loyal ice cream aficionados, The Parlour closed. It would take some time, another remodeling job, but it would reopen again. Same name, now serving sandwiches, plus all the old favorites. I don’t believe they make their own ice cream anymore. But it’s still very good. John and I stopped there just a couple weeks ago after we had been house hunting. I ordered my Parlour favorite in the smallest size, which is still huge. The Pecan Turtle Sundae. Vanilla ice cream, hot fudge and hot caramel topping, salted pecans, real whipped cream. And a cherry. In the dessert world, this is: To. Die. For. By the time we were half done with our ice cream, but all the way done with eating any more ice cream, we decided from here on out, we should order one speciality dish when we come. And share it. We’re both fine with that idea. (As long as it’s the Pecan Turtle Jr.).

 

Tell me this isn’t the cutest picture of Peyton-ever!!!

 

This is my fondest and funniest memory of a visit to The Parlour. Didn’t happen that long ago really. I’m almost positive Peyton was 3, thus Landon was 7 and it was fall of 2007. Tracey was teaching at Jackson and head basketball coach. Shannon was one year away from attaining her PH.D. So she was in school, an hour east, somewhere in Detroit. Don’t remember where Ariana was that afternoon, but she would have been about 16. Maybe an after school activity. Anyway, we were watching the 2 youngest ones. We decided as a special treat, we’d take them to The Parlour. This is kind of a dicey decision. Landon has an array of food allergies. Milk, eggs, beef, chocolate. Yikes. But The Parlour offered some fruit smoothies, like slushes, which he loves and can have. The Parlour’s seating is mostly swivel stools at a counter that snakes through a very large room. The last thing this grandma needed was Peyton taking a dive from one, onto the hard ceramic tile floor. Or rambunctious Landon running around like, well a 7 year old. So we chose one of about 4 booths they offer. John and I sat on the outside, him with Landon (now Drew to the rest of the world) me and PJ on the other side. We ordered.

 

The place for ice cream…

 

In saunterd a man a little older than us. With 2 very elderly women. The 3 of them plop in the booth directly across from us. They ordered as we got our ice cream. Talking, watching our adorable grandkids. (And who could blame or resist them)? We’re nearly done. So are they. The man gets up to pay. One of the ladies scoots out. (Not the right word. Try slowly inches) her way to the restroom. The remaining gal glances over occasionally. Smiling, watching us. Ever so slowly she maneuvers out of her booth. Stops smack dab in front of me. As God is my witness, she started what can only be described as a litany. A long litany.

 

Adorable Peyton, about 3…

 

“That’s my son Herb over there, paying the bill. He did the most thoughtful thing today. My name is Mabel, I’m 93. The lady who went to the restroom is my younger sister Mildred. She’s 90 and looks pretty good I think. Well she lives in Hamtramck. Do you know where that is? It’s over by Detroit, a good hour away.” (Peyton is now resting her jaw on the table. Landon however looks somewhere between amazed, dubious and sincerely troubled).

Landon (Drew to the rest of the world, 2007…

 

Mabel was not yet done with her conversation with me. “I haven’t seen Mildred for 5 years. So Mr. Thoughtful over there gets up this morning, drove ALL THE WAY OVER to Hamtramck. Just so we could spend the day together. We’ve just had the most wonderful time. Visiting and reminiscing about growing up. We thought the best ending to this fine day was some ice cream from The Parlour. Before Herb drives her all the way back to Hamtramck.” (Landon is now whispering furiously in grandpa’s ear across from us). Hubs just nods and puts his finger to his lips until Mabel decides it necessary to finally take a breath. (She’s like some long winded preachers I’ve heard in my lifetime-except she’s so stinking cute) Nope, still not quite the right moment to inhale.

 

Not particularly cheap, but worth the money…

 

“You got a real nice family,” Mabel exclaimed, smiling at Landon who’s still rather leary of this whole situation. “Are these your grandchildren?” “They sure are,” I bragged, “this is Peyton and her brother Landon. We’re watching them this afternoon while Daddy is teaching and Mom is in school. Which is very near where your sister lives.” Mabel glances over at the cashier. “Well I can see Herb and Mildred are waiting for me. You have a wonderful day with your little ones.” She finally takes a humongous gulp of air, smiles and pats me a couple times on the shoulder. Slowly toddles towards the door of her waiting, not so patiently, relatives.

 

I don’t think I’ve ever finished what I’ve ordered…

 

Landon is totally done whispering now. “Who was that lady? Is she a friend of yours grandma? Why did she stop here so long and talk so much?” I didn’t get a chance to answer. Grandpa took the lead. “No Landon, grandma has never seen that lady before. But this happens to her all the time.” (it does, I’m not ashamed to admit it) “As you get older, you’ll notice every time you’re with your grandma. Complete strangers, usually older folks will strike up a conversation with her. In a aisle at Meijer, at one of your daddy’s basketball games. Even here at The Parlour. You might as well learn this early and get used to it. You too Peyton. Your grandma is the old people whisperer.”…

 

A Dare to be Great. Wow…

 

 

 

How the Hubs and I became acquainted with these 3 fellas was kind of a fluke. Tom, Tileo, and John sat in the pew behind us during church. Tom had been widowed for years, and was in the middle of writing a book about the history of our church. Tileo sat with them was because his wife was in the choir singing every Sunday. John’s wife was having some health issues and rarely made it to the church service anymore.

 

Where the conversations were held-before and during the service…

All 3 sat conversing before the service started each week. Sometimes including us, sometimes about us. Kidding. Tom and Tileo didn’t have much to say for a couple of reasons. Both were rather soft-spoken and quiet gents. John did most of the talking on Sunday mornings. Didn’t really matter if the service had started or not. If he had something to say, it just got said. He wasn’t inappropriate in his comments and was sharp as a tack. He just didn’t have too much. Tact that is. I guess he figured his time was as valuable as the preacher’s. Each of them vying for a listening audience.

I was very fond of Tom. I purposefully stopped a couple times to visit him though he was not on my parish visitor list. He was about 80, still driving, going out to eat, visiting family near and far. Tom had just returned from a 6 week trip to Europe. When I remarked the following Sunday that I had been a little bit worried because he missed so many Sundays in a row, he grabbed my hand and told me how much he appreciated knowing someone noticed his absence. He was just finishing up a book about the church he had been working on for a couple years. Tom was honored at a church dinner shortly after it was published. Wasn’t a couple months later he suffered a massive stroke and passed away.

Author, friend Tom in 2000…

 

Tileo I never would know very well. He was quite frail, and spent most of his time with his wife Martha, and their musically talented family until his death a year or so later. Soon it was just John sitting behind us on Sunday mornings. Accompanied by his running conversations. Before and during the service.

John and his wife Marcella lived a few blocks from me in North Muskegon. Since I had never met her, I stopped at their house one afternoon to remedy that little wrong. John ushered me in and introduced me. He didn’t stop talking for 30 minutes straight. Finally Marcella looked at him squarely, and strongly suggested he go out for a cup of coffee. See if he could meet up with some of his retired realtor buddies he used to work with. He kindly took her not so subtle hint.

 

John and Marcella, about 2000…

 

Now was the time for Marcella and I to get acquainted. She was a retired elementary teacher from North Muskegon Schools. Said she taught the choir director at our church when he was in third grade. She was the same age as my Mom who had passed away just months before. Born in 1926, she shared the same birthday as the Queen Elizabeth.

 

John and Marcella were so proud of their Navy son…

 

A routine doctor’s visit revealed a spot on Marcella’s leg that needed attention. Although the procedure wasn’t new, I had never heard of it before. It’s called Mohs Surgery. I think it’s used for certain skin cancers. Usually done in a specialist’s office, her dermatologist practiced in Holland, about 40 miles away. Once the affected area is numb, the cancer was removed. The surgeon keeps searching for cancer cells around the area, removing a little bit more at a time. Then waiting until a pathologist looks at the latest specimen. If any cells are suspicious, they keep going deeper or out farther. Removing, sending the cells to be diagnosed, waiting to hear if this section is completely clear of cancer before closing. Fascinating really. Sometimes skins grafts are needed if the incision or surrounding tissue damage is extensive, but Marcella’s incision healed up just fine. Unfortunately, this was not her only or most serious health issue. But for the time being, she was fine.

One day I was parking my car in front just as they were backing their Caddie out of the driveway. I waved as they slowed down to see who was in the strange car. John rolled down his window, and hollered, “Denise, come get in the car and go for a ride with us. There’s a new housing development started out near Lake Michigan and I want to check it out.” (Forever the realtor). “Marcella’s been stuck in the house for a few days. We’d love it if you would ride along and keep us company.” (Explanation: listen to some of my stories). Marcella and I did have a great time hearing John’s opinion on whether this housing addition would be a smashing success or not.

 

The USS Nimitz. All 1092 feet of her-WOW…

 

John and Marcella had 2 children. Their daughter I believe lives in Kentucky. Their son Robert was a career Navy man. He had just been (I don’t know the correct term. Promoted, commissioned, invited, forced) as the CO (Commanding Officer) of the USS Nimitz. One of the Navy’s biggest, most prestigious super aircraft carriers. A very big deal. The local paper had numerous write-ups about the local boy and his huge success story. Because Robert was stationed in Hawaii for a time, John and Marcella decided to vacation and visit him there. Didn’t take too much persuading I don’t think.

They had a wonderful time and brought back a gift for me. Several of Hawaii’s local artists work on the beach and hand paint T-shirts. Marcella had bought several T-shirts from this gal when they had vacationed in Hawaii before. The artist signed and dated my shirt. One of the best gifts I’ve ever received. Every time I get that summer T-shirt out, my mind immediately drifts back to 2006. Visiting Marcella after her fabulous Hawaiian trip. She was still feeling good. A wonderful memory to reflect back on before she got so sick.

 

Aloha~Denise~Maui~2006…

 

Not long after getting back from their wonderful vacation, Marcella’s health would take a turn. I can’t remember exactly what it was called but a very serious blood disorder. Quite the opposite of what my Dad had. His white count hovered around 100,000 and should have been 12,000. While something in Marcella’s blood that should have numbered in the thousands sat near zero. She went into Hospice care and passed away shortly thereafter. A unique, quiet, inspiring teacher, wife, mother and grandmother. And I was lucky enough to call her my friend.

 

Gift from Marcella from Hawaii, 2006…

 

Robert retired from the Navy and his family and moved to California. By this time, John was in his upper-80’s. Bob and his sister thought it was a good idea for him to move closer to one of them. John decided on sunny California. He lived there for several years, first independently, then with some assistance. If he ever made it back to Michigan after his move to California, I did not get to visit with him. He just passed away recently, and a memorial was held in our church. No more Sunday mornings with John. Listening to him chat before, during and after the service…

 

CO Robert throwing out first pitch in San Diego…

 

 

I was raised to stay put. Until serious health issues forced Mom and Dad to make some necessary, but unwanted changes, they had only lived in 2 houses through 62 years of marriage. Both in Rock Valley. In 1955, when I was 4, we moved to 1711 15th Street, which would remain their home for 50 years. Hard to imagine. Back then, most things they were involved with were long term. Dad worked at the Iowa State Hiway Commission over 30 years. This wasn’t just a small town Iowa thing either. As a rookie, if you started your baseball career with the Chicago Cubs, odds were 20 some years later, you were still playing with those lovable losers. So what happened to me? How come I didn’t stay in Rock Valley? Heck, I even moved away from Iowa.

 

1711 15th St. where I grew up…

I never set out to move a lot in my adult life. I recently found a hundred letters Mom saved that I wrote her in the mid-70’s. In several, I’m very troubled because Shannon is about to turn 5. It wasn’t the turning five part I was unhappy about, but the going to school part. We were living in eastern Iowa. That area involved several miles which was about 90% Catholic. Nothing wrong with that, but every small city, town, village, and neighborhood of 3 or more homes, had their own Catholic school. Shannon was about to start kindergarten. The closest public school was miles away and humongous. I wasn’t feeling comfortable with our options. Deep down I had an uneasy feeling my kids weren’t going to experience the kind of school career (not the hopeless, non-study type kid I was, but the closeness of the small town living throughout my whole childhood). That somewhat ominous feeling would prove true for all my little rug rats. Sigh.

 

First day of school for Shannon on the farm, 1976…

 

I wrote Mom it was high time the Hubs and I settled down. I was committed to the idea. I wanted us to live, work and “stay put” in the same town once Shannon started school. That way, she could enjoy what I had growing up. Going to school with the same kids the entire 13 years. Knowing almost everyone in town. I was anxious to put down serious roots somewhere. I was skeptical and a bit afraid of this big school system she would have to attend if we stayed. It wasn’t what I knew or grew up with. How are you supposed to nurture close friendships with a class size of 400? My class size was only 50 some kids. Worrywart mom.

 

One of my class pics, maybe 4th grade…

 

Not to be. Hubs and I never did end up staying in any one place very long. Only time we did, Shannon and Joshua were grown and out on their own. Adam was a sophomore. I believe both boys changed schools 4 times. Four times. Shannon informed me she changed schools 7 times. So much worse. I guess I’ve been in denial. Pitiful. Totally blocked out a few of her moves.

 

Davenport 1985. Josh and Shannon had already changed schools several times…

 

It sure never crossed my mind that John and I would end up moving 15 times during 45 years of marriage. If you take away the lengthy stay in North Muskegon of 21 years, that’s not letting very much grass grow-anywhere. A few moves were our choice, but many were not. Companies where John was working suffered a downturn, the economy was in the tank, or companies were swallowed up by a bigger fish, and employees let go. Each time requiring finding work elsewhere, and moving the family. Again. Never occurred to me until recently but when each of our kids were sophomores, we moved, and they had to change schools. Tough time for teens. And for the mother of teens.

 

Mommy and Shannon, 1973. The first home we bought in Sioux City, Iowa…

 

Our kids seem to have skipped a generation and that pesky gene that has plagued their mom and dad. Although Josh has moved around a bit in the city, he’s been in Detroit for over 15 years. Shannon moved back to Jackson 14 years ago and still lives in the same house. Though that may change, but not by very many miles. Adam and Sarah haven’t moved either. Both are committed to the fantastic school district adorable Graham attends. Makes me feel good. They’ve put down better, deeper roots than we ever did.

 

Davenport Iowa home during Bix Race, 1985…

 

For as long as I can remember, we’ve always had “the next place” lined up and ready. Our current situation is a first. I fretted about it for weeks. Finally just had to let that one go. It somehow seemed irresponsible to me, without just cause. Not to have a place to call our own when Allied Van Lines pulled up in front of the house. What were we trying to accomplish, relive the ’60’s? We never were the young snots going through hippiedom. We were trying our darnedest to raise our kids the best we could.

 

Jackson, Mi. 1987-1994…

 

But it really started even earlier than that. I had made a list of businesses to call. You know, Consumer’s Energy, DTE Gas, Directv, Internet. Plus all of my magazines that needed a change of address. People, TV Guide, Good Housekeeping, (as if) Family Circle. I found all the numbers and addresses I needed and sat down with a frown. Not looking forward to all those calls. I don’t do very well on the phone with my hearing loss.

 

J and D. Didn’t have a permanent address together yet, 1965…

 

That’s when it hit me. For the first time in our married life, we had no forwarding address. I couldn’t request the electricity be switched from North Muskegon to WHERE-EVER! I would have our final bill sent to? Where? Hmmm. Might have suffered a mini-meltdown right then and there all by myself. Such a disconcerting feeling. A sense of panic. We’ve always had somewhere to go. Responsible parents with a home, and new school, even if the kids were justifiably upset with another move. Yet here we were. Retired. Still, seemingly not together enough to have “the next place to live.” Just can’t explain how queasy that made me feel when the realization hit.

 

Moorings Court, North Muskegon, Mi, 1994-2015…

 

Finally, after a little weepy and poor, woe is me session, I dried my eyes, blew my nose, and started punching out numbers. After a few calls, I thought it polite to text Shannon, asking if we could use her address as a home base until we bought a house? Since I had already given it out to a dozen times.

Rock Valley, Iowa has always held a special place in my heart…

 

It’s a weird feeling not having a home base. A strange feeling I hadn’t felt since my 40th class reunion in 2009. Hubs and I were in Rock Valley for the day. Shopping, eating, riding around and reminiscing through old neighborhoods. But we were staying in Le Mars with John’s brother and his wife, Les and Mary Jane. Dressed in jeans and t-shirts, though at least smart enough to bring along better clothes for the reunion. But an hour before heading to the reunion we suddenly found ourselves questioning exactly where could we change our clothes? Without that home base we were both so used to. We finally drove outside of Rock Valley, stopped on a gravel road. Walked down the ditch and each changed clothes in the corn field. Laughed about what we would have been doing 40 plus years before when changing clothes together in a corn field. Yeah, we would have been very late. And dirty. All joking aside, it was an awful feeling. Still gives me the heebie-jeebies. No home base. Nomads. Wandering. Drifting. Sponging off our kids.

 

The Hubs and I…

 

I was telling Shannon about the strange feelings Hubs and I have been having. Living with our kids. Waking up during the night, before dawn. Watching my son-in-law Tracey slink (hard to do when you’re 6’5″) through the house with his hand covering the dim light of his phone. Navigating quietly through his own house. Trying hard to be polite and not wake me by turning on some lights. Whispering to Landon as they got ready to start their long day. Decided to give Shannon and crew a long weekend break, so have been staying with Adam and Sarah for a few days. Waiting for news on the house we bid on. Lots to do, but nothing much to do until we close. Our 11 year old granddaughter, Peyton appeared to be in her own little-newly-minted-middle-school-normal-world while we were talking. I was joking with Shannon about our living conditions. Being homeless. Peyton’s head shot up, her eyes scorched mine. She insisted with some heat, “grandma, you’re not homeless. You live with us now and this is your home.” What a great thing to say. Thanks Peyton. And thanks kids…

 

Peyton honing her archery skills at camp, 2015…

 

 

 

 

 

It should be compared to a lengthy, difficult labor. Except there’s no newborn to smell, swaddle and nurse. Besides the good Lord gave new moms the ability to gradually forget about those perfectly timed, excruciating pains when you shouted the Hubs name. Claiming if he ever comes near you again, there would be hell to pay. Hell. To. Pay. Nope, not going to forget this for a quite a spell.

 

1979 with newborn Adam…

The week everything fell into place for closing on the long awaited sale of our house, not exactly everything fell just right. Just fell. Three sprinkler heads went kaflooey, dribbling water like a little boy with bad aim. Who wants a new owner to start off with that mess? Growing grass is tough enough here. You’re trying to have a lush green lawn on about 4 inches of topsoil covering 2 feet of sand. Besides it’s a Hot August Night (Neal Diamond) and the lawn is already stressed. John hopped in the truck, ran to the hardware store and bought some new heads. Terrible to admit, but I always kind of get a kick out of watching him change heads. He digs up the old one, replaces it, then has to set them. Exactly right. So every stinking blade of grass gets equally covered. He gets utterly saturated with sprinkler well water. When he’s absolutely sure the rotation is perfect, he’s covered with mud, sand, water and mosquito bites. I wouldn’t do that job if you paid me. But Hubs has always been anal about his grass.

 

Muskegon Lighthouse looking west towards Milwaukee, 2015…

 

The evening Hubs changed the sprinkler heads, he sauntered in, filthy and dripping wet. While he scooted upstairs to shower, I made supper. We ate, then decided to go for a little ride. Stopped at our favorite ice cream joint (we knew our 2 visits a week were going to end soon) and each got a twist cone. Meandered home and settled in the family room. John reached for his iPad next to his recliner. Which was setting on the hearth. Behind his iPad are a set of fireplace tools you use to arrange wood and stoke the fire. Like a gentle breeze, one of the tools (fireplace, not Hubs) slowly started leaning. For 21 years we have had those fireplace tools flying, falling, and flipping through that room. Nothing has ever happened. But this time there was a sharp crack as wrought iron nuzzled the fireplace’s 4 paned glass doors. Actually sounded kind of neat. Tinkling little shards of glass sprinkled the hearth, my sandals, the carpet and an open lock box of old pictures I had been delving through for blog pictures. We just sat there, looking back and forth at each other, 12 feet apart. Watching as the few remaining clinging hunks of glass made their way to their final resting place. What are the chances? What was the tool (fireplace) doing there anyway? We usually put them in the garage for the summer. We hadn’t burned the fireplace in months. Why hadn’t the tool (Hubs) moved the dang thing? Burning questions and you want answers. Got nothing. Guess we didn’t move them to the garage because it was already bursting at the seams. We both assumed they should stay with the house.

 

Lake Express arriving daily from Milwaukee. Our lake home was behind that out crop of land in left corner…

 

Well, the new owner was expecting doors on the fireplace, so John took the measurements, and zipped upstairs to the computer. Searching, he found a set just like ours, but with glass. He ordered new doors while I cleaned up. A fluke. The doors came a few days later, and didn’t take Hubs long to install. All shiny and new, looked good. The tool (fireplace) was then put out of harms way. A day late and many dollars shorter.

 

Fireplace now has a new set of doors…

 

Closing went without a hitch, giving us 14 days to move. Seems like a long time doesn’t it? Holy Hanna, it went fast. We blew 2-1/2 days house hunting when we should have been packing in earnest. But finding a new crib was much more fun that going through drawers, cupboards, closets that held items from the Eisenhower administration. I jest. Well, most of our furniture was born about the time of Eisenhower, but we weren’t. After looking for a house the second time, we decided that had to be put on the back burner or we’d never be ready when the moving van parked in our drive.

 

Seagulls get cold feet too…

 

If you’ve been at an address for any length of time, take a mental walk through a couple of your rooms. Notice the painted rocks your granddaughter made for you awhile back. The magnet pictures on the fridge, box of colors, a few crayons short. The Northern gar pike hanging on the wall. Remembering 17 year old Adam excitedly calling you at work one day many years ago. Begging you to have it mounted for him.

 

Neighbor’s lab Junior, Adam with speared gar pike, 1997…

 

Who doesn’t have at least one junk drawer? We have 3. Every bit of string, dried out tubes of crazy glue, wandering nails and an obscure coin from a Las Vegas trip 20 years causes reflection. Most must be weighed in worth. Smiles, tears, pros-cons. I tossed or donated items I could barely part with by day 6.

 

Sailboats on Muskegon Lake behind our house, 2013…

 

Finally in Jackson, I looked at my holy mess of a Jeep and slowly started unpacking. Most of it are things I need until we buy a house. Clothes and toiletries. Still off to one side of the mountain of miscellaneous crap, I find 3 small Meijer bags. Filled with empty pop cans. A whopping $3.40. Are you kidding me? I lost more than that when I pitched the new jar of Hoisen Sauce from the fridge missing 1/2 cup from the last time I made broccoli beef. Ugh.

 

Sunrise looking east at Moorings Court, 2013…

 

I wasn’t dreading this move at all. It was anticipated wholeheartedly. But I could not fathom exactly how much stuff had to be plucked, pondered, and plunked in a box. While I was super diligent at first, it didn’t take long before that over exuberance waned dramatically. The clock was ticking faster than a speeding bullet. No time if a pair of my Keen sandals were in the bathroom. Mentally, I’d take make a note. Keen sandals in with 2-36 packs of Northern bath tissue. As if. There were numerous things to decide on and delegate, and too little time to devote anything to memory. I’m lucky I could remember where to turn off I-96 to head south on 127. Someday I will get to that huge box of toilet paper. Hope it’s spring so the sandals are right on time.

 

Lake Michigan. Breathtaking beauty…

 

By day 8, most of the stuff I was packing, I never wanted to see again. It’s like you become desensitized. I was a packer in zombie mode. Only one purpose. The finish line. Which was before the movers arrived.

 

Left Muskegon Lake, right, Bear Lake, top magnificent Lake Michigan…

 

The most unappealing aspect of this is NOT that we have yet to find a home to buy. All of our belongings are safe. Secure and stored for now. The key word here is: stored. Meaning, lucky us, we get to do this again. Yay us. But this time, without the massive amount of help from the dudes from Allied. Who, by the way after 5 hours of backbreaking work in hot, humid weather conditions, were still taking the stairs, 2 steps at a time. And singing. And joking. All the while hauling out our antiques that were barely recognizable. Which accounts for the secure part.

 

Deep water channel to Lake Michigan, looking west…

 

These moving dudes know their way around old furniture. For example, my stacking oak bookcase. This exquisite piece was willed to me several years ago. Really, one of my better stories. Titled Mildred and Charlie, in October of 2014. The bookcase is actually 7 separate pieces. After John and I picked it up in 2008, Hubs had a heck of a time putting it back together. The 5 bookcase sections are all just a bit different in size. By maybe half an inch each. Plus the bottom section is a drawer and the top fancy part. So I numbered them from 1-7, making life easier for The Hubs when it came time to slap that sucker back together. Little show off mover guy had other ideas after thanking me for the great idea of numbering them. He secured (“we don’t use tape Denise. If this piece sits in storage even a few days, when you try and remove it, the finish comes right off”) cardboard to the front, protecting the glass doors. Proceeded to haul out a huge roll of Saran Wrap, which they prefer to call shrink wrap. Show-off-mover-dude ran around the bookcase a minimum of 648 times. With the Saran Wrap at warp speed. Top to bottom. Gave a little whistle, another mover (there was only one show off) with a carrot top (Red) hustled over. Both picked up the bookcase like it weighed 5 pounds-tops and zoomed it into the truck. All my antiques were treated this way.

 

Bookcase snugly stored. Waiting to come back home…

 

The hardest part is done. Moorings Court now has a new owner. I’m so glad. I hope he enjoys the house and living on the lake. For this homeless couple, we are filled with hope and anticipation of where we’ll be hanging our hats soon. Still, absolutely no regrets. Only got choked up saying goodbye to my dear friend Jo. I will miss her. And Lake Michigan. One unparalleled body of water. Some of the most spectacular sunsets, ever. But the bennies about living here. Within a few minutes from my 3 grown children and 4 grandchildren. That too is unparalleled. I think they’re all excited that we will be living closer. Maybe they’ll show more excitement in a few months. After the dreaded call and some time has passed. The recent unpleasant memory has faded a bit. We have moved every one of them too many times to count. Hauled furniture back and forth. They owe us. It’s pay back time…

 

Lake Michigan. Simply stunning…