We helped some people move into their new house today. The new youth pastor and his wife arrived from Buffalo, New York. They don’t know anyone here yet, so a bunch of people from the church helped them move in. It’s always friendly-like to help new people move in, especially when they don’t have
victims friends in the area who can help.
No, I’m kidding about the victims part. I’ve always enjoyed helping people move. Last year, Darling Husband and I helped two different people move. Les’s furniture was crazy-heavy, and Claude and Kendra had a lot of stuff, so we really earned our pizza on those moves.
From moving 9 different times, I know that people need help when they move, and I feel like I’m paying it forward when I help others move. Another reason I enjoy helping people move is that I enjoy living vicariously through them: the feeling of a fresh start, the question of where to put everything. Since I probably won’t ever move again until I’m too old to climb the stairs, I like to share in the excitement with other people who are moving.
This couple have been married only a year and they haven’t accumulated a lot of stuff yet. There were 875 of us helping them move, so we each carried in a single item and the truck was unloaded in half an hour. I carried in a fork. Easiest move ever!
I got some very boring pictures of people standing around the truck fighting over who got to carry in the towels, (no, not really–I made that part up) and then amused myself with some close ups of their lovely, old, antique-y furniture.
Oh, how I love old furniture! It’s taken twenty years to get the balance of furniture in my house just right. When we were first married, we had only a little bit of furniture, and it never looked pulled together. I used to bemoan this fact to my friend, Michele. “Oh, Michele. I love my furniture, but it doesn’t look right. It’s all sparse and empty on these ugly white walls. And none of it matches.” And she would comfort me by saying, “Oh, knock it off. You’ve got stinkin’ one-of-a-kind antiques all over your house from Andrew the antiques dealer in England that people would kill for. I’m sick of hearing you whine,” or something equally gentle and loving. And then she’d roll her eyes at me. Michele spends a good portion of our time together rolling her eyes at me.
Michele is much more down to earth than I am and often tells me to stop thinking so much.
Maybe the oddest thing about Michele is how much she loves cars. Because she’s normally kinda girly, so you wouldn’t know from looking at her how much she loves cars.
I remember the day we stood outside of work, not going home because we started chit-chatting on the way out and couldn’t stop. As each employee passed us to head to their cars, she told me which car was his or hers on the lot. We’re talking about 200 people, and Michele knew which car belonged to which person. And she had opinions on whether or not their cars were suited to them. She would say, “There goes Richard. He has the blue ’89 Ford Escort. It’s totally the wrong car for him. He should have a Chevy Silverado.” “There goes Lisa to her red Volkswagon Jetta. Completely suits her.”
She never thought that Darling Husband and I were driving the right cars for us. But we were. We were because we were driving cheap little cars. And since we’re cheap (and little) it works for us. She thought we were selling ourselves short and we should drive nicer cars. Hey—it’s kinda nice to have friends who think you deserve a nicer car.
Michele’s dream car is some sort of muscle car from the 70’s. I wrote down what it was one day, but I lost the paper. I promised her that if I ever became rich enough to buy my friends their dream cars, I’d get that car for her.
Someone bought Michele a coffee table book of cars for Christmas, and she showed it to me. There we were, sitting on the couch with the book opened on our laps, with Michele pointing out all the different features on the cars, “And then, in ’67, they changed the headlights, here and here. See?” and she’d point to the cars with her long manicured nails, and give the brightest smile you’ve ever seen, gazing with affection at the pictures of the cars and comparing their bumpers. I was bored out of my mind, but she loved to look at that book of cars.
Anyway—we helped these people move in and I loved looking at their furniture. And Laura, who we were helping move in, told me that she loves her furniture too, so it’s not like she has it just because they don’t have anything better yet. And she said she likes my blog.
Likes old furniture and likes my blog? I have to say, I like Laura!