Anatomy of a Bat-Out-of-Hell Move

Or is it the Physiology of a move....

Chronology? Yeah. I think that's it.

11 pm Monday: Evelyn leaves after helping me put the last few items in the car. The truck has been loaded earlier by an army of men and teens from church. She has stuck around to help with the last minute clean-up. We both bawl as she is leaving.

1:00 am Tuesday: Crawl out of the tub and onto the foam mattress on the floor, having finished the last last-minute cleanup.

4:15 am Tuesday: Alarm goes off. Mist and pull my hair into my signature french braid (roll the bangs on velcro rollers for the "I-KINDA-care-what-my-hair-looks-like" look. Realize the only shoes I've left unpacked are the dirty white canvas mules I've been wearing for two days while packing and cleaning. Oh well, I was thinking about throwing them away....

5:00 am Pull out of the driveway, thanking God for my time in that house, and the absolute blessing it was to live there. I am driving a 26 foot truck and towing my mini-van behind.

6:00 am Tuesday: Meet Maurice at Laurie's to get my books out of her attic. Since I have room, I might as well take them. Laurie says, "I hate that you are taking your books because it means you won't be moving back." I say, "I thought about leaving them here just to make sure I would see you again." She turns me around and points me to the door and says, "Get out of here. I'll talk to you when you're on the road."

8:00ish Tuesday. Stop for diesel at the Flying J in West Memphis. Totally baffled by the arrangement. Ask a trucker how this works, and he walks me through the whole routine. Gotta note the island number, go in and leave your drivers license or ATM card with the attendant, take the nozzle off the pump on the driver's side and turn it on and set it down on the island. Then go around to the passenger side, remove the nozzle and turn the pump on, pump the gas, replace the nozzle, go around to the driver's side, replace the nozzle and go in to finish the transaction with the attendant. OK. Busy, but not complicated. I can do that.

Get black grease all over my already dirty white shoes.

10:20 am Tuesday: Pick up my Mom in Little Rock. She has flown in the night before to help me drive the rig to California.

Early afternoon Tuesday: Russellville, Arkansas. Get gas, switch drivers. I sleep on the bench, which is fairly comfortable--just gotta get the feet in the right place.

Late afternoon Tuesday: Shawnee, Oklahoma. Get gas. Get more grease on my white shoes. Hair has the bed-head look, reminiscent of Meg Ryan in You've got Mail.

Early evening Tuesday: Somewhere in Texas. Wonder if I ought to stop for gas at this exit, but Mom is sleeping heavily and I hate to wake her up. We OUGHT to be able to make it to Amarillo.

About an hour later: Around thirty miles from Amarillo. Fuel alarm sounds. Loud, shrieking car-alarm sort of sound. IT WON'T STOP. There is no civilization to be seen. Finally a sign for a travel stop seven miles away. The alarm shrieks the whole way there. Mom and I shriek back at it after awhile. But we make it and put 33 gallons into a 40 gallon tank. (We're averaging 7.3 miles to the gallon.) Grease on both my shoes, and one shin. I use a wet paper towel with some soap in the bathroom to smear the grease on my shin in a thinner, wider streak. Hair has the Charlie-Brown's-little-sister look--sticking straight out on both sides of my face. I tuck what I can back into the braid.

Early Wednesday morning: Sky City, New Mexico. Gas. Mom has been driving all night. Stopping in Santa Rosa for gas is a blur. I've slept--mostly...sorta, on the bench next to her. I did reach a point where there was absolutely NO comfortable place to put my feet. Shoes and feet have developed a distinct, unpleasant odor. Mom mentions the wind is gusty, so be careful

Later Wednesday Morning: Winslow, Arizona. Gas, breakfast. I can smell my feet without taking off my shoes. Hair has reached hag status, reminiscent of Miracle Max's wife in The Princess Bride. Mom buys a brush at the truck stop and hands it to me saying, "Do you want to try to do something with your hair?"

Early Wednesday Afternoon: Somewhere in Arizona. Gas. The wind has blown non-stop since we entered New Mexico. It is a hard, gusty wind, and keeping the truck steady has been a workout. I spill diesel on my shoes, and don't even look at my hair. After washing the truck windsheild, I hang up the driver-side nozzle and pull forward to pay--taking the passenger side nozzle with me, as it is still in the tank. (Most people will go their entire lives without doing this. I've done it before.)

Wednesday Afternoon: California Border Inspection Station. We have forgotten to purchase the obligatory Arizona Fruit Offering, so have nothing to leave with them. They want to inspect the contents of the moving van. I joke, "Are you looking for illegal Arizonans?" He smiles wryly. "Are you carrying hazardous cargo?" I look at him questioningly. He sniffs. I look at my shoes.

Later Wednesday afternoon: Somewhere in California. The truck is losing power. On a long slow grade it can only do 45 mph. I call Kirk, my friend the chief mechanic for the city of Collierville. I tell him what is happening and he says, "It's a U-Haul, right?" No, it's a Penske. "OH! Then no, that's not normal. Give 'em a call; they have roadside assistance."

3:00 pm Wednesday. Almost-to-Barstow, California. Waiting in what barely passes for a rest area for the Penske-ordered mechanic. The wind is blowing HARD. The wind is blowing SAND. I take the opportunity to brush my teeth (with bottled water; the rest area water is not potable) and wet and rebraid my hair. The bathrooms are NASTY. There is no where to go to be out of the wind and sand while the mechanic is running his diagnostics. We try to hide on the leeward side of the truck, but still receive microdermabrasion to our exposed skin. The windswept hair-do reminiscent of Phyllis Diller is also nice.

5:00 pm Wednesday. Back out on the road. The truck has been running idle for quite some time, and is low on gas. The alarm begins shrieking. Again it is seven miles to the next gas station. We let it shriek with nary a response.

8:00 pm Wednesday. Gas. Dinner.

1:00 am Thursday. Arrive. Wilbur is waiting up for me. Carlson is unrousable. Ruby wakes after much shaking, looks at me wide-eyed and gives me a hug, then goes back to sleep. I have promised to sleep and snuggle with the kids in the queen-size hide-a-bed. I say to Wilbur, "Do you mind if I take a shower before we snuggle into bed?" He puts his chin down into the neck of his T-shirt and pulls it up over his nose and shakes his head.

2:00 am Thursday. Crawl into bed with my sweet babies. Ruby joins us a few hours later. Heaven.