A move always brings on challenges and stress, things best avoided anywhere near the age of seventy. But when you’ve made the decision to live close to one of your children and have already made one cross-country move to achieve that end, you live with the consequences. 

Silly me.

Murphy’s Law states that if anything can go wrong, it will. I’ve never seen that so fully displayed as I have this past month. I moved from Tennessee to Montana four years ago with no problem—even carrying a cat and litter box along for the ride. Since we no longer have a cat, I expected the move from Montana to West Virginia to be a piece of cake. Plus, I was going back east, back to the Appalachian Mountains that feel like home to me, where I grew up camping and hiking.

Was I ever wrong.

Turns out, the area southwest of Charleston isn’t growing, so there’s no new construction to consider and any existing house that goes on the market sells quickly. The older, established neighborhoods are often unreachable due to the steep, narrow, winding roads required to reach them. Though simply a challenge when hiking, add speed to the recipe and these hills and hollers are traumatic to drive through.

We found a lovely, older home that was overpriced based on surrounding sales, so offered a lesser amount, but the sellers’ disclosure form revealed that a good portion of the yard and landscape, including a stone wall that we admired, encroached on a neighbor’s property. The sellers said they had a gentlemen’s agreement with the neighbor, but we hardly expected that to transfer to new owners. We dropped that one from consideration. 

We found another house, one that was only ten years old. It, too, was overpriced, but we made an offer. Our inspector found major water problems under the house which the owners insisted had been corrected, showing us five-year-old documentation. Stop, people. What you had done five years ago obviously has no bearing on what’s true today. The sellers refused to allow us to have an inspection/estimate done by a specialist. Just, why? We let that one, too, fall by the wayside, even though the sellers came back and nearly begged us to go ahead with the additional inspection. Should have allowed it earlier, people. 

Next came two houses in our preferred neighborhood, the one closest to our daughter’s home, but the sellers were asking much more than we felt the quality and condition warranted, so we let those go. Four offers in less than a month that went nowhere. Other potential homes came on the market during that time, but were snapped up so quickly, there was no opportunity to even see them. 

Finally, after three weeks of looking and fretting, we got the jump on a house that hadn’t yet hit MLS or Zillow. We made an offer that very day, full price. The house was built in 1959 but had had lots of updates and was immaculate. 

Was this the one?

Our inspector came the following week and found water in the crawlspace, surprise, surprise. Our daughter warned us that all the houses in West Virginia had water under them because of the constant rain. How right she was.

But our inspector also found water damage on the floor in front of a fireplace the sellers had boarded up and finished as a wall. Was the water coming from the roof, where water had not been properly directed away from the chimney that abutted the house? We didn’t know. But there were also electrical problems, outlets that weren’t properly grounded, etc., an electrician’s services required.

So, we entered negotiation stage. The sellers got an estimate of $11,000 for the crawl space corrections, while our basement guy estimated $37,000. Quite a difference. We asked the sellers to lower their price $40,000 to cover the cost of repairs. They countered with $20,000 and said they would go no lower. We let that sit overnight and the next morning, our realtor called to say they had reconsidered and would lower the price $30,000, Sold.

With two days to go before closing, we got busy having utilities transferred to our names, a true pain since everything is automated and it’s a rare thing to find human help. We’d need a certified check to pay the mover before he’d unload the truck, but for that we needed a local bank account which we didn’t have. We went into Truist where it took two hours to open an account. Two hours. But their computer system wasn’t working properly. The banker said it was working fine just before we arrived, so we must have jinxed it. Murphy’s law? And then we had to get money into that account since our primary bank had no branches in West Virginia. Depositing a check would not get the money into Truist in time to pay the mover, so we had to rely on a wire transfer. For that we had to put Google Chrome on our computer since Safari couldn’t cut it. Just, why? We’ve used Safari for years and are comfortable with it. Why did we have to get a new browser?

Then we faced the trauma of wiring the large purchase price of the house to the title insurance company. Amidst all the warnings about fraudsters stealing funds, we were scared to push any buttons especially since we once again had to use unfamiliar Google Chrome.

When we attempted to get the internet hooked up, we went to the Optimum store. It was managed by humans, but they quickly gave us a number to call so we could talk to a bot instead. We like the human touch, people.

Moving day arrived. Our driver Vic’s helpers didn’t show, so he rescheduled for the following day, when his workers showed up two and a half hours late. Then they took an hour too long for lunch. Oh, and the moving van couldn’t manage the narrow roads in our neighborhood, requiring a U-Haul rental. It took three trips for the movers to transfer our belongings and get them into the house.

They had a time getting my upright piano moved in because one of its cast iron wheels had broken off. It was fine when they loaded the instrument in Montana. 

What next?

The movers got the sleep number bed put together but we didn’t know where batteries were in order to use the remote to fill the mattress with air. Too many boxes to look through. After the movers left, we found the support pieces on the slats of the bed weren’t properly placed–one even fell off. Would we ever sleep in our own bed again? 

When we checked out from the VRBO we stayed in for five weeks, we accidentally left George’s bourbon behind in one of the cabinets. Not a good time for him to be without his soothing brew. 

What else could go wrong?

The people who sold us our home left lots of décor. I suppose they were trying to make us feel welcome. Problem was that the décor didn’t suit our tastes. The sellers also left carpets and furniture without asking us if they could, even two large recliners. Fortunately, a couple of the movers took the chairs off our hands. The rest, we donated or had hauled to the dump, except for the massive workbench that was left in the garage. The sellers’ garage never saw their cars. Instead, it was heated and cooled, carpets on the floor, and used as a workshop. They obviously enjoyed making things, so why didn’t they take the workbench with them? Because it was too big and heavy. Which meant it was also too big and heavy for us to move.

As if we didn’t have enough to do.

When settling our furniture into place, we found the office bookcase wouldn’t sit level. Uneven floor? No, one of the plastic floor pegs was protruding too far and couldn’t be screwed back into place. We took it off but then had to put a shim under that corner to hold the thing level. It was fine when it left Montana.

And then we got a third estimate for the crawlspace by the company endorsed by Dirty Jobs’ Mike Rowe. It was the largest dollar amount yet. Going in the wrong direction pricewise, but we wanted it done right.

We faced the chaos of the DMV to get Drivers Licenses. My person was a trainee, so processing me took much longer than processing George. Then, my license ended up costing $5 more than George’s. What’s up with that?

Speaking of chaos, that was our house as we unboxed things. Paper, so much paper everywhere and boxes to break down and get rid of. I stashed things in cabinets just to get them out of the way, but then George came behind me, moving things where he wanted them. Did I mention that we have very different opinions?

The movers couldn’t hook up our washer and dryer, something that’s never happened before. We had to wash clothes at our daughter’s home for a week until we could find experts to get things connected.

Over and over it happened, the worst-case scenarios coming true. So, we decided to go on a trip, get away from our money pit for a couple days. Blennerhassett Island State Historical Park was our destination; the place Aaron Burr retreated to in 1804 after killing Alexander Hamilton in a duel. Also, the place where Burr conspired to start a new nation in the southwest.

Parkersburg, West Virginia, was the launching spot to reach the island. We bought tickets that would entitle us to do it all: the museum, sternwheeler ride, house tour, and wagon ride, something we were told could take three to four hours, though we doubted we would last that long with five grandkids in tow (the youngest being only two).

But Murphy had followed us. After we looked around the museum, the ticket-seller told us the sternwheeler was having engine troubles, would be an hour late getting us to the island, and would have to retrieve us early, giving us only an hour for the wagon ride and house tour. We made it to the island, took the wagon ride and rushed through the mansion in order to be at the dock when it was time for the sternwheeler to depart. We made it but the sternwheeler didn’t. It completely broke down and couldn’t return us to the mainland. 

Oh, Murphy.

Along with the other tourists, we trudged across the island to another dock where the park service folks broke us into small groups to be shuttled back to Parkersburg on two small pontoon boats they used for emergencies. Running low on water and snacks, we waited and waited for our turn, stunned that park staff was so ill-prepared for such a thing. Finally, however, we made it back to the mainland.

Despite Murphy, everything related to our move finally seemed to be working out. We obtained our driver’s licenses, we got the utilities and internet connected, the movers paid, and the house purchased. The crawlspace encapsulation is scheduled, we got rid of most of the unwanted furnishings left by the sellers and put our furniture in place. We’ve made numerous trips to the recycle center to get rid of paper and boxes, and we’ve donated many things to nonprofits. We’ve had overhead lights installed in several rooms and had electrical rewiring done. 

We’re about to get settled.

After our island getaway, when I queried the grandkids about their favorite part of the day, the general consensus was the pontoon boat ride, the remedy to Murphy’s shenanigans.

 Maybe there’s a positive side to his law after all.

By the way, Murphy, we have an unneeded workbench we’d like to get out of the garage. It’s free, but up to you to haul it away.

What could possibly go wrong?

https://pulsevoices.org/stories/the-screening

            So, I had the surgery, the surgeon sewing that tendon back in place. (Who knew you could use needle and thread on a bone?) I’m thankful for the nerve block that lasted the first one and a half days because even with it, the pain was fierce. The ice machine helped, though not significantly. The oxycodone they gave me helped as well, though I limited myself to half a pill twice a day and stopped it altogether after three days. No way was I getting hooked on that.

            I lived in my recliner the first two weeks, eating, sleeping, reading, hurting. I got up to use the bathroom and take an occasional shower, but those movements were brief. I learned to wipe with my left hand, let my husband soap and rinse my hair, and wrote with my left hand (legible, though not pretty). My arm was in a sling 24/7, except for the few minutes I ventured into the shower and the three times per day that I did the recommended exercises: swinging my arm like a pendulum, lifting it up and down. Painful, so very painful.

            After a couple weeks, I transitioned to the bed at night, supported by a wedge cushion and extra pillows under the damaged arm. It was rough, sleeping flat on my back without the ability to roll to one side or the other. But I survived, doing little every day but reading and dozing.

            An inkling of freedom came after six weeks when I was allowed to ditch the sling and proceed to physical therapy. And wow, did that ever help! Sure, it hurt to extend my arm more in different directions, but the therapist’s massaging of my shoulder and arm helped tremendously. After my first session, I even dared to drive the car. 

            I resumed my walking routine, enjoying it more than ever before. I don’t know why it’s taken me until age 71 to realize that Fall is my favorite time of year. The beautiful colors have buoyed my spirits each day, reminding me to thank God for His wonderful gifts: trees, rocks, leaves floating through the air, the roaming deer, mountains peeking through clouds, the ability to walk outside and see it all.

            My therapist measured my range of motion, comparing my uninjured arm to the one requiring surgery. She talked with me about how I typically used my arm and quickly gathered that playing the piano was important to me. She asked my favorite kind of music to play. Classical, of course. Beethoven, whose powerful music allows me to pound away my stress. Though I suggested it would be a while before my arm was strong enough to play Sonate Pathetique with the intensity it required.

            As soon as I got rid of the sling, I was at the piano, stretching my arm to reach high notes. And did it hurt my shoulder? You bet. But I was determined to reach those ending notes of Clair de lune, so I kept at it. Doable, as I played with a light touch, but still painful.

            Have I tried Beethoven yet? No. But I chuckled when I learned that my therapist wrote in my chart that the goal was “Beethoven by Thanksgiving.”

            That’s worth working for.

            They’re called urban deer, these animals that roam my neighborhood. Many people consider them a nuisance since their tendency to eat flowers and trees negatively impacts landscapes. To me, they’re a gift. The small spotted babies, white tails flipping, are the picture of innocence. They look at me with black, unblinking eyes, unafraid. I minimize my movements to keep from startling, not wanting to frighten them, but at the same time hoping they will fear humans. Hunting season, after all, is just around the corner.

            Yes, hunting season, a disconcerting time of year. I have family and friends who hunt and confess I have difficulty reconciling their sport with my love of these animals. I understand if their actions serve to put food on the table. I eat innocent chickens and cows, after all. Hunting simply for a trophy, though, seems cruel and unreasonable. Go shoot some targets, boys.

            The animals graze close to the street where they show no hesitation in stepping out and slowly crossing. They don’t shy away from passing vehicles, unaware, I suppose, of the harm they might come to if hit. Like children, they don’t fear the worst—probably can’t imagine it.

            I’m the opposite, always preparing for that worst-case scenario, endless possibilities streaming through my mind. Not wanting to be caught off-guard, I live in a constant state of anxiety. I’m sure that has served me well at times, maybe preventing tragedies of my own. But anxiety gnaws, eating you from the inside, and that can’t be healthy.

            I believe God is in control and I’m in His sovereign hands. At the same time, that trust doesn’t blind me to the what-ifs. I pray that God would strengthen my faith, that He would give me a deer frame of mind. Innocence without fear.

            Sounds like heaven.

Though I loved seeing my grandparents, my favorite place to stay during our visits was at Uncle Leonard’s house where I could spend time with my cousins Frances, Johnny, and David. Frances and my sister Debbie were a bit older, so they tended to hang out in Frances’ room for girl talk. Pretty boring. I, on the other hand, felt right at home with the boys.

My memories are varied, but vivid. Having boy-cousins to pal around with was akin to having brothers, something I never experienced. Other than taking Sunday afternoon walks through the woods with my dad, I’d become acclimated to doing indoor girl stuff: cooking, sewing, and the like. It was great to get a new perspective.

Johnny liked to draw pictures of a guy in a lab coat with wild hair, a mad scientist who I took to be Johnny himself, a self-portrait. As smart as Johnny seemed, I fully expected him to make great scientific discoveries, though if he has, he’s never told me about it all these years later. Of course, we haven’t kept in touch too well, so anything is possible.

We liked to roam the big, rocky hills behind my cousins’ house, but always had to be wary. Most of the boulders were owned by a neighbor who didn’t like kids on his property and was apt to appear at any time, said the boys, with his shotgun. I don’t recall encountering him, but I was sure he lurked behind every rock. Did that make me feel bold and daring? You bet it did.

There was a yard a couple doors down littered with neglected apple trees. One time, the owner left a basket of rotten green apples in his yard. David rounded up firecrackers from somewhere and, sneaking into the yard after dark, we put one in each apple, lit it, and then threw the apple into the sky, trying to hit bats. It seemed like fun…until one of the dazed bats got tangled in my hair. That put a stop to it. No more good times with apples and flying creatures.

David and Johnny sometimes turned their garage into a haunted house with flashing, colored lights and things dangling from the ceiling. They would lead me through, eerie music playing, and since I was told to keep my eyes closed, I nearly jumped out of my skin every time something brushed across my face. They were scaring me to death, yet I counted on them to protect me. 

Ever heard of scrapple? It was some sort of meat Uncle Leonard made that we would fry up for breakfast. I had to Google it to learn its ingredients: fried pork scraps and trimmings combined with cornmeal or flour and spices. Hmmm. Doesn’t sound very appetizing, but it sure tasted good to the younger me.

I have memories of more than adventuring with John and Dave. There was the West Virginia State Museum located in the basement of the Capitol building in Charleston with the one and only exhibit I remember: the dressed fleas. Yes, you read that right. Dressed fleas. Remnants of some long-forgotten flea circus. The tiny insects had to be viewed through a microscope. I was amazed that someone was able to dress them in clothes, until I finally understood that the clothes had been painted on. Still….

And I can’t leave out Blenko Glass in Milton, West Virginia, a maker of hand-blown glass since 1893. My parents always delighted in seeing the craftsmen at work and took me often to watch. I’ve had a couple of their double-spouted pitchers for years and suspect I’ll acquire more of their artful pieces on my soon-to-come next visit.

I’m preparing now to relocate to West Virginia, something I never anticipated, but necessary if I want to stay close to my grandchildren who just moved there. Will I see those cousins I enjoyed so long ago? I’ll be in Charleston, about an hour’s drive from Huntington, close enough for visits. Cousins renewing acquaintances with cousins. Second cousins meeting second cousins (my children), and third cousins meeting third cousins (my grandchildren) for the first time.

It could be a confusing mess, but if I reconnect with my cousins, make new memories with my grandkids, and get to see those dressed fleas again….it’d be heavenly.

            I stopped eating chocolate for six months while following an anti-inflammation diet. The diet included eliminating sweets and increasing consumption of protein. It seems the protein saved me from the expected chocolate withdrawal headache, so I thought I was home free. But then I realized I couldn’t think. I would sit down to write, and nothing would come from my empty mind. Words that earlier excited me now seemed dull and lifeless, giving no impetus for self-expression.

            My brain wasn’t receiving signals from my chocolate sense, which is, apparently for me, a requirement for healthy mental function.

            Typically, when a person lacks a certain sense, the remaining senses become more acute in a positive way. When I go without chocolate, though, the result is not positive. My sense of hearing increases maddeningly; the slightest sound is liable to make me blow a gasket. Not a path to increasing harmony in the home or workplace.

            So now I’ve fallen off the no-chocolate wagon and am thinking more clearly. Happier? Certainly. Enjoying all my senses without putting any of them into overdrive serves me well.

The East is where I’ve spent most of my life, my familiar stomping grounds, but how I will miss the beauty of Montana. I am in awe of this place where I’ve striven to be rooted. “Bloom where you’re planted,” the old saying goes and I’ve tried to do just that, to become established where I am. I’ve been here two and a half years, hardly enough time to become fully rooted, but I’ve given it my best shot.

There’s much to miss. The endless azure sky, gazing beatifically through the clouds, makes my heart feel at rest. The enormous billowy clouds in various shades of white and gray, floating above my head and sitting on the shoulders of the huge mountains that surround Missoula take my breath away. Those mountains have rounded contours that were carved by a receding glacial lake, but beyond, I can glimpse the Mission Mountains, the higher, more rugged peaks, teeth outlined by snow.

‘Tis a delightful place to be rooted.

During childhood, my family moved frequently which impacted my ability to make friends, to feel comfortable in school, and to feel that I had a home. That’s why place is important to me, why I’m a homebody, able to sit happily and comfortably in the place I call home. That’s also why it’s hard for me to leave.

I ponder where I should be rooted. In a place? In people, specifically, in family? Or should I simply be rooted in God and God alone?

Jesus said, “If anyone loves me, he will obey my teaching. My Father will love him, and we will come to him and make our home with him.” (John 14:23 NIV) That sounds like a true home.

Jesus goes on to say, “I am the vine; you are the branches. If a man remains in me and I in him, he will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing.” (John 15:5 NIV) Abiding in God, being rooted in Him. “He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; he set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand.” (Psalm 40:2 NIV) 

I can think of no better place to be rooted.

I looked quizzically at my granddaughter. “The music sounds like yellow?”

She nodded and went on to explain that she and her younger brothers had been assigning colors to things. She gave the days of the week as an example.

“Mondays are blue. Light blue.”

“Interesting,” I said. “What else?”

“Fridays are green.”

“Green as in go?’

“Yes. Fridays are green…and skinny.”

I gave her comments a lot of thought and then finally turned to Google to see what I could learn about senses triggering other senses. It’s an actual thing, called synesthesia. Webster defines it as a subjective sensation or image of a sense (as of color) other than the one (as of sound) being stimulated. Wikipedia says it’s where stimulation of one sense results in unexpected stimulation of a second sense. It can cause a person to experience a color when listening to certain music—thus explaining Hannah’s sensing yellow because of a section of music. In a similar way, words can trigger the sense of taste.

It’s no surprise then that Hannah said of the six bookmarks she made for my birthday, they were for “all the delicious books” I’m reading. The bookmarks, strings with beads at each end, were of different lengths and colors. The shortest, nine inches long, displayed blue beads and a tiny white seashell. Next in line, at eleven and three-quarters inches, came one in turquoise and green shades, anchored by a small silver fish. Then came the bone marker at twelve inches, beads in brown and ivory made out of, if not pieces of bone, its closest match. And then came the purple horse-charm marker, at fifteen and a half inches, followed by the camel-charm marker in shades of purple at sixteen inches. Finally, came the starfish marker, measuring sixteen and a half inches.

Friends asked if a book’s genre determined the bookmark I chose to use. Nope. Maybe my senses aren’t all that sensitive, since the length of the marker is my biggest motivation.

Dangling things disturb me. They’re not neat and orderly, in a prescribed place. So, I’ve chosen the bookmark that most closely fit each book I’ve read, leaving only the beads exposed and none of the string to swing about in unwieldy ways.

I never have liked loose ends.