Don't move; stay there

    Moving is bad.

    Moving is like picking your teeth with an ax.

    I don’t care if you have a lousy job, bad neighbors and an ugly house. Don’t move.

    Aside from removing your own gall bladder with a tree branch, moving is among the worst experiences in life and I’ve done it about five times. I can tell you this last one was the last one. I will be buried in my recliner where it sits. I’m not moving an inch. A hundred years from now they’ll find me stale and dusty in my chair with the TV still stuck on QVC with all those pretty earrings.

    Even if one of those Oklahoma earthquakes finds its way to my house, I’m sitting tight. Anyway, I paid 65 bucks to the home insurance guy, so earthquakes are covered. I suspect volcanic activity, war and pestilence were other options I could buy, but he didn’t say and I didn’t ask.

   I left the entertaining state of the handsome and indictable Rick Perry two months ago. He was quite an act and friends wondered why I would exchange the all-star highlights of a Texas governor for the hijinks of a Kansas governor, who may be even more entertaining. The only difference between the two is that the Texas guy has better hair. Unfortunately, since he now claims that his back hurts he no longer wears boots, not a good thing in the Big Cowboy State, so Sam Brownback’s ahead since he continues to wear studly, manly boots while Perry has probably gone to those penny loafer type footwear, difficult gear to wear stepping through so much of that stuff state legislators produce.

    But the move wasn’t about the governors. It was about returning to Kansas, where Dorothy said there’s no place like home. I’d lived here before for well over 20 years married to a born and bred Lindsborg girl (Graduated Bethany College—Go Swedes!), and our daughter was born here (and graduated K-State—Go Wildcats!).

   After ten years of living in the Lone Star State, the Lindsborg girl said she didn’t want to die in Texas, to which I instantly replied that I didn’t want to live in Texas. I can tell you it was an unrehearsed, instant reply, something I hadn’t even thought much about. Anyway, unemployed as I am (which the Lindsborg girl calls retired), I figured getting involved with a moving project would otherwise keep me out of trouble. It was also a good excuse not to look for a job.

    We gave up a 1976 ranch-type home with a pool on a quarter acre and bought a 1600-square foot two-story 1910 bungalow in Lindsborg with a half acre. With so much land I haven’t figured out whether I’m a rancher or a farmer. I have one critter, an old lab, which might qualify me as a rancher, although I irrigate and plant all over the property, which makes me think I could be a farmer. Can you tell I’m shopping for subsidies?

    If I got one ugly goat and a big-butt mower the size of a small tractor, maybe I could qualify as both. Unfortunately, subsidies never seem to get down to the little guy. Anyway, you have to have a PhD to read and follow all the government subsidy hoops, and frankly, I’m simply not that bright.

   Truth is farming and ranching are both much too hard for me, a city boy who spent most of his working life sitting behind a computer. You can tell this by the way my eyes bulge out on my face and the way I can flex my finger muscles when I want to impress a crowd. I know how hard it is to work outdoors. I baled hay for a few years and thought I was going to croak out there behind the trailer. The only reason I went was the family promised a free breakfast. It was a good breakfast, don’t get me wrong, but I nearly died earning it.

   After the mover examined our house and gave us an estimate, I told the guy I would box up all the books for a reduction in price. It turned out that the savings I received was exactly what I paid for boxes. If you move, let them pack. Save your mind, not to mention your back.

    The realtor told us to remove all that “stuff” from the walls, meaning all the family’s pictures, including the photo of the great, great grandfather everyone seems to think is handsome, while I feel he looks more like a serial killer you might find on a billboard in the post office. There was also art, plenty of it, including Hutchinson artist Jack Stout paintings, prints by Lindsborg artists Lester Raymer and Birger Sandzen, and John Blake Bergers, to name a few. I wondered what Sandzen would say hearing his print referred to as “stuff.” He’d probably stammer some select French words, which is probably the most cuss words those nice Swedes can come up with.

   We took the realtor’s advice and then had to live in a house that echoed. This went on well over a month. Clean the pool, clean it again after the storm, get the lawn mowed, clean up this, clean up that, move that chair. After a while our home looked more like an old used up museum.

   Fortunately, the house sold in one day once it went on the hot Texas real estate market. That was the only saving grace of the move preparations since we spent one day walking around a park so prospective home buyers could privately inspect our house and fondle our stuff.  After that experience, I decided I wouldn’t last another day sitting on park benches trying to entertain the Lindsborg girl and the mutt. Thankfully, I didn’t have to.

    On moving day, three guys showed up. Their operation took two days, one to pack boxes another to fill the truck.

    Once in Lindsborg, only two of the three movers showed up. Two guys to empty a huge truck. But these guys were amazing. They were quick, energetic, powerful and efficient. Nevertheless, they weren’t out of there until 9 pm. I was dazzled and told them so. Later, I figured they were so familiar with hard, overwhelming work they must have been raised on a farm or a ranch.

     Thereafter, we faced about two months of opening boxes and trying to figure out where we put the sheets. We labeled everything, but you’re still going to lose things in all those boxes. I have to figure out how to hang all our “stuff” on plaster and lathe walls. I’ve gotten lots of advice about this and all the advice contradicts one another, so I am going alone.

    But we don’t care now. Unemployed, I have plenty of time not to look for a job. We are finally home. Best of all, no need to move. Ever. Again. Period.