That's Too Many

     I was talking to someone the other day about moving and about how many times they had moved in the past few years. We both wondered why there is always that box of stuff that magically disappears after you finish moving. You know that box; you drive yourself crazy looking for that one thing you can’t find anywhere during your unpacking, so it must be in that box. I decided to yank the thread on that old sweater by trying to list all the places I’ve lived since 1980.  I started with 1980 because for a good portion of 1979 my address was my van or whatever couch I could find to crash on and the rest of it appears to be stuck in that memory spot that stubbornly refuses to be anything more than liquid tar. I’ve been in this house for eight years, which is the longest I’ve lived anywhere since I was a kid, so I chose the end year of 2006. I scratched out a list and was surprised when it added up to 20. Holy crap! Looking at the list there were five locations that totaled 18 of the years in that 26 year span.  Before moving in here, the longest I stayed anywhere was 6 years, 3 of them were a little over or a little under 3 years, one was a little over 2 and the other was a just short of a year.  After doing the math and coming up with 15 more moves in remaining 8 years it is no wonder I hear the word “moving” and I just run away, nowhere in particular mind you, just away.  I also counted the 2 summers I spent living in a campground while my house was being built as one because it was the same campground. 

     I bought my first house in Richmond, Virginia in 1985, only stayed there one year. It was a cute little place, 3 small bedrooms, though it had a nice sized yard where I was able to have my first and only garden; the tomatoes and cucumbers took over the area behind the garage, those jokers just don't quit growing. The day we packed the truck to leave it was 60 degrees or so outside, shorts and tee shirts were the attire of the day and the date was in the first week of February.  Our caravan landed in Connecticut in the early evening on moving day and we unloaded while slipping and sliding on the snowpack of 6 or 7 inches that covered the ground. The next morning I almost choked on my morning coffee when I read the thermometer. It was all of 4 degrees.  Timed that one well didn’t I?  

 

                                                   Richmond, VA 1985                                            

                                              

      My move out here to Arizona from Connecticut was another example of epic timing. The idea for that move started during February in the middle of a driving wet snow. I was plowing snow for the apartments I worked at with a ’72 GMC ¾ ton that had most definitely seen better days. The cab mounts were so rusted and rotted I held my breath when I turned a tight corner: I was sure the cab was going to roll right off the frame.  The exhaust had pretty much rotted off, there was maybe 2 feet or so out of each manifold, it was so loud it set off car alarms when I started it up. The bald-ass front tires leaned in opposite directions, but hey they were snow tires!  The best part was the heater, what heater, this was the last year GM had the cab with that little fart fan for heat and defrost.  Needless to say the old truck was struggling to handle the near century record snowfall that winter of ’93. We tried to rig the vents a bit to try and keep the windshield clear. Yeah, not so much. The ends of the windshield would freeze over with snow and ice so I‘d have to get out every half hour or so to clean it off, then hope I didn't get poked in the ass by a stray seat spring on my return. Hanging my head out the window didn’t help either, my hat kept blowing off in the wind. After yet another excursion for ice removal I hopped back in the truck and said to my then girlfriend, “This shit is getting old”. She replied, “Let’s move somewhere warm.”  “Ok”, I said, where do you want to go?”  “Phoenix, Arizona”, was the first words out of her mouth.  I sort of shrugged and said, “Ok let’s do it.” 

                                                                                         
                                                                        

The Rot Box

 

    
     After selling almost everything we owned, we proceeded to drive 2,500 miles across the country in 2 vehicles with no A/C. On the 29^th of June 1994 we hit Phoenix proper,it was 7a.m., smack dab in the middle of the morning parking lot on the freeway through the center of town. The big bank sign with the thermometer read 103 degrees.  What in the blue fuck had I gotten myself in to? The daily high temperature that first week didn’t drop below 115. I felt liked a boiled owl most of that first summer. I’ve only moved 7 times in my 20 years here, so my average time of staying any one place is getting better.  This has been a pretty good place to live. I’ve met a lot of good people, buried a few that taught me more than a few things, experienced untold amounts of self-discovery and managed to stumble across the lovely young woman that is now my wife.  All-in-all its been a good run, though I’ve come to realize I miss bodies of water not dug by a backhoe and trees that didn’t come on a truck.  I miss green. Brown is an ok color, though I prefer it in more when in the form of chocolate or coffee.