Bill's Bulletin Board
By Bill Rea

Moving is no fun.

It's been more than six years since the last time I moved, and nothing has happened to make me change my mind.

On that occasion, we had lots of helpers, including my mother, brother and inlaws. My brother and brother in-law somehow managed to drop our TV in the driveway (it still works). The day ended with my telling all the unhired help that they could leave, and the message was delivered in such a tone that they probably got the idea I wanted them out of the house. The truth is I was so strung out by that point that I really did want them all out of the house.

Moving does that to me.

Thus, I felt a lot of sympathy Friday for my nextdoor neighbour; make that my former neighbour, as he has since moved away. But from all I heard and saw, including a brief late-night conversation on my front stoop, his departure from the neighbourhood wasn't particularly smooth.

Probably all of us have had to move at one time or another, so we know one of the basic realities of the experience. If you're going to set aside a day for moving, count on a day from hell. That is what I experienced six years ago. I told Beth, after her relations and mine departed in response to my not-so-subtle hint, that I was resolved never to go through that experience again.

"I'm going to die in this house," I told her in about as blunt a tone I have ever used on my wife.

And that still goes. When I leave my current house for the last time, I plan to be on a stretcher.

I have been involved in many moves over the years, and only one was even remotely fun. A casual acquaintance simply put out a call for helpers on a sort of grape vine I was connected to in those days, and about 50 people showed. He was also just switching from one apartment to a larger unit at the other end of a very long hall, so things were relatively easy. The only hard part came when we had to move his glass-top dining room table. It took 12 of is and a lot of perspiration.

But other than that, moving is a drag.

I was six years old when my family moved, and my parents had the good sense to park my brother and I with our aunt, uncle and three cousins for a sleepover the day before. I remember being sorry at the time that I was missing all the activity, but having subsequently learned how stressful moving is, combined with the realization of how well my late father handled such stress, I know I spent the day in the best place possible.

I helped my brother move a couple of times, and two memories are strong from the experiences. I always seemed to get dropped off at home before the post-move parties, and I learned that my big brother had an extraordinarily colourful vocabulary, especially when a lessthan reliable truck was involved.

I had one friend I was pressed into helping to move some years ago. I was responsible for renting the truck, and arrived to find that I comprised the entire workforce she had recruited. Added to that was the fact that she had the most enormous collection of rubbish that I had to lug about that the whole operation was spread over two days. Oh yeah, I ended up paying for the truck too; one of many reasons why she and I aren't in contact much any more.

Then there was the time my mother moved from her house into a condo. Luck must have been really smiling on me, because I was unable to get that day off work, thus I arrived at the scene, ready to pitch in late in the afternoon.

It was a moving day, thus a day from hell.

Actually my mom, being the meticulously organized person she was, had her end pretty well under control. But she had only limited influence on the people who were supposed to vacate the unit she was to move into. As things turned out, they were delayed, meaning Mom was delayed. And a great big moving van (Mother had the good sense to hire professionals) at the loading dock of the building late at night didn't go over well with the powers that be, who ever they might have been.

One officious resident of the complex took it upon himself to accost my brother and I and voice his displeasure. I was tempted to accurately tell this fellow it was none of his business, and if he had trouble with the pace at which the move was proceeding, he was free to make himself useful and grab a box. Failing that, he was free to make himself really useful and shut up. As I stated, I was tempted. But since my brother wasn't driving the truck, he was able to summon up enough diplomacy to deal with this jerk, thus keeping me out of a fistfight that I probably would have lost.

With such memories in my mind, I had no trouble sympathizing with my soon-to-be-former neighbour the other night. I threw him a jocular remarked when I got home from work, but let it go at that, since he seemed pretty busy (big surprise).

I was not too surprised when the doorbell rang late at night, and even less surprised when I saw who had done the ringing. I briefly thought he might be taking his final leave, but he was instead seeking permission to park some of their stuff in my backyard. Permission was readily granted, but that was followed by tales of numerous woes, involving plans that had not quite clicked, leading to delays and the inevitable overflow effect it has on others involved in the move.

I told him about my resolve of staying in my current home until the day of my death, and he concurred this would be the last time he would put himself through such an ordeal. He apologized for calling so late, and I assured him the only thing he was interrupting was the tape of a Ronald Reagan movie (Knute Rockne, All American, which Beth had never seen). That resulted in probably one the few chuckles that poor guy had all day.

The important thing to remember about moving is that no matter how hard it is on one's sanity, the ordeal eventually comes to an end.

In the years to come, I predict that my former neighbour and my new neighbour will reflect on this past Friday with a grin, if not a chuckle, if not a laugh.

I'll bet they'll be laughing right up to the day when I get carted out of my house on a stretcher, because I ain't moving again.