When I was young, the kitchen sink served as the shampoo bowl and my mom performed the duties of the technician.  My mom’s ideas about haircare for a young girl were very basic and that was probably because her skill set was very basic.  She cleansed my hair and conditioned it.  Once it was dry, she would sit me in a chair and she would perch herself on a bar stool and get the stove warmed up for the pressing comb.  I used to wish she would straighten my hair and put some curls in it.  Nope.  She would straighten it, then part it down the middle and put it into two pigtails.  I had a permanent part down the middle of my head from wearing this same hairstyle every day for years.  She did allow me to choose what color hair bobs I would wear or if I would wear any at all.  I used to wish she would consistently send me to a beautician at a real shop.  Unfortunately for me, trips to the beauty shop and hairstyles with any type of curl or wave were reserved for special occasions like weddings and Easter.  I think fancy hair completed the lace and patent leather shoes I wore for those special occasions.

I remember when she decided that I would begin regular beauty shop appointments with her friend who my daddy called “the hairdresser.”  The hairdresser lived in the neighborhood down the street.  In the discussion about why she decided that I should go to the beauty shop, my mom said something about learning that she had a pinched nerve in her left hand and because of it she burned my hair.  She said she never wanted to do that again.  What the what? You burned my hair? Well, I really didn’t know how she knew she burned it and I wondered whether anyone else could tell that she burned it.  At any rate, I was excited about the announcement that I would be going to the beauty shop every other week.  “Yes!” I thought.  This was a time for celebration until I realized that she was in cahoots with the beautician and the permanent part would possibly be there the rest of my life.  Shampoo, condition, dry, press and part it down the middle.  Shampoo, condition, dry, press and part it down the middle.  Really?!  Yes, really.  Every other week my mother and the beautician achieved the goal of healthy hair with age-appropriate styling.

I was definitely my mother’s child because I was pretty limited in the hair styling business myself.  I found myself filling my daughter’s head with pigtails wrapped with cute, colorful hair bobs and bows.  When she was about three, we used to sit at least twice a week and watch the movie “Jungle Book” while we did hair.  We would collect the bucket of hair bows, the comb, the brush, a pillow or a kid-sized chair for her to sit on, and some snacks.  It was quite a production, but it was necessary.  We knew all of the songs from the movie and we sang and quoted movie lines while I did hair.

I think it was middle school when she made it know that she was not hearing the healthy hair, age appropriate styling talk.  I reminded her often that I was not a skilled “hair dresser” and that someday a beauty shop would be a necessary part of her life if she wanted diversity in hair styling. As much as she did not want to spend her time in a beauty shop, she was forced to go through the rite of passage that is the African American beauty shop experience.  She quickly learned that she could get some homework done or pretend to look at hair design books like the other women in there who were really eavesdropping on the other conversations happening in the shop.  And, in the age of cell phones and text messaging, we engaged in text message conversations about whether certain wives tales were really true or why somebody didn’t comb out their curls before leaving the shop or the day that women in the shop realized Miss So and So had a weave.  We can share each other’s beauty shop experiences from many states away because of the cell phone.  The camera phone enhanced the beauty shop experience by allowing us to share pictures of our new do’s.  I have even been able to keep in touch with my favorite beautician in the Midwest when my girl was in her chair.

I am proud to say that my daughter demonstrated more hair skills than I do.   She has done a pretty good job with her own hair.  But, she ain’t no technician.  One of the best family memories we have relates to the evening my husband was preparing for work and announced that he needed somebody to give him “a line.”  I was usually the one to give the line, but that evening our daughter said, “Oh, let me do it.”  To my surprise, he said, “Ok. C’mon.” What?! I followed them into the bathroom so that I could witness her coming of age moment.  She was about to perform one of the most important hair care rituals for African American men (or at least the one’s I know) – “lining him up.” The hair cut is not complete and the look isn’t fresh if the edges are not crisp.

“So, where do you want me to put the line,” she asked.  He said, “Right here” as he pointed to a spot just behind his right ear and even with the top of the ear.  She said, “Ok” and prepared to give him a line.  I left the room for some reason and when I returned I saw the line going across the back of his head stretching from the top of the left ear to the top of the right ear.  Oh my gosh! I couldn’t believe my eyes.

I wondered what was going through his mind as he sat there when she made the first cut and he knew there was no going back.  How did he sit there and let her meticulously cut that line across the back of his head on a level up near the crown of his head instead of near the nape of his neck?  She was proud of her work and he apparently didn’t have the heart to tell her to stop.  He let her work her barbering magic on his head knowing that he had to report to work within hours.  All I could do was laugh out loud.  I think my laughter was the first signal to her that something was bad wrong with the line.  She stopped and said, “I did what he said.”  Yes, she literally did what he said.  Then, she said, “I was just trying to help.”  Laugh out loud.  Oh wow!  He never made her feel bad for the barbering mishap, but it was clear that she needed to direct her energy toward being a good student because she was not showing much potential as a barber.  It was a good thing that her daddy had time to shave his face and his head before reporting to work.

In general, it is a good thing to have a gift that keeps on giving.  Even when we are traveling and shopping for souvenirs, I look for items that will be useful to me or the family when I get back home.  I purchase things like neck ties for the guys, scarves, socks, crafty jewelry, dish towels, or special brews of coffee or tea.  My mother used to say that I was too practical.  She was right.  I always did and still do think it’s wasteful to buy things you will never use.  My mother was a child of the depression and she had a lot things that she cherished that were rarely used.  We had beautiful living room furniture that was only used by special guests and her club members.  She would only allow us in that room when there was an overflow of family members visiting or when she wanted me to show everyone the new song I learned to play on the piano.  The only other time I can remember us using the living room was Christmas morning.  We would all sit in there while we opened gifts.  When my brother came over with his family, we would sit in there and sing Christmas carols.  He was the true musician in the family.  His ability to read music and play several instruments, including the piano, was a gift to the family that kept on giving.  As a child, I figured out that my family gifted me with material things and they gifted me by sharing their talents with me.

Many years later, after my kids were in elementary school and middle school, I learned that my family’s gift giving ability was not as limited as I believed in my youth.  One day I got light-headed and passed out in my kitchen.  I remember my son cut his finger while he was trying to cut an apple, I think.  I had fallen asleep on the coach and was awakened by his shout that he cut his finger.  I rushed him to the kitchen sink to rinse away the blood and assess the situation.  I asked my daughter to bring us a bandaid and she did.  I opened the bandaid quickly and attempted to wrap it around the injured finger.  For some reason, the finger kept moving away from the target area.  I couldn’t understand why it wouldn’t stop moving.  I heard the kids ask if I was all right and I replied that I would be fine.  Honestly, I remember thinking, “What is going on? This is weird.”  I didn’t feel fine.  As I faded back into consciousness, I heard my kids screaming for their dad to come downstairs.  I remember my daughter asking if they should call 911.  I remember telling the kids that I was fine and they just needed to check my son’s finger.  Later the kids told me that I sounded like a really drunk woman trying to tell them she was fine.  My daughter decided to make the call.  I remember thinking that if I could have laughed I would have laughed at my daughter telling the emergency operator,”If I knew what was wrong with her, I wouldn’t have called you.  Can you just send someone to help my mother.”

After the ambulance ride to the emergency room, the doctor came in to review the battery of paperwork I completed and he said, “Wow, you are doing a pretty good job managing your health.  Your family history has not done you any favors.”  Man!

Recently, I had a similar experience when I was having an eye exam and the technician had “just a few questions” about my medical history.  “Any heart disease?” “Any diabetes?” “Any strokes?” “Any breast cancer?” “Any hypertension?” “Any other cancers?” “Any issues with the kidneys?” “Any cataracts?” “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,” I replied.  I only answered no to the question about liver issues.  As I sat in the chair shaking my head, I said aloud, “I think I should write a blog called the gift that keeps on giving.”

I have heard people say time after time that I remind them of my parents or that I have grown up to be just like my parents.  Heck, I can remember sometimes thinking that I have become my mom or dad.  Every time I am asked about my medical history I realize how much I am really like my parents and other family members.  We resemble each other from the inside out.  As much as I looked up to them and admired many of their qualities, I can’t say that I looked forward to having any of the illnesses that plagued them.  It was not a badge of honor to positively identify with heart disease, hypertension, cancer, or diabetes.

The family history of breast cancer led to mammograms in my early thirties and I recently received an order for a colonoscopy and I am not yet fifty.  I constantly work to manage my diet and do some walking so that I can ward off obesity which can enhance my chances of heart disease, diabetes, and some cancers (or at least that’s what I have been told).   Last year, I participated in some genetic counseling and some genetic testing to determine if I had any mutated genes that might give me a higher probability for breast cancer.  The findings suggested that I did not have a higher risk than any other person so my probability for developing cancer cells would probably be based on environmental exposures.  Wow.

There is no way I can control every environmental factor that might effect my health negatively.  I do the best I can to eat more fruits and vegetables and avoid second-hand smoke.  I have tried to encourage my children to eat healthy, whole foods and exercise regularly.  I told them in their younger years that I wanted them to teach their bodies to crave good foods and to crave exercise so that their normal would not be my normal.  When I am real honest and talk about what I seek in times of stress or relaxation, I will tell you that I revert back to what is comfortable for me – sitting on a couch with a book and a glass of sweet tea (and a remote control nearby just in case I need a break from the book).  My body may crave good foods, but exercise takes me coaching myself or making deals with myself to get this body up and moving.  I recently started tracking my steps and that has been a great motivation for me each day because I look forward to reaching the daily steps goal.

I try to limit the unhealthy food choices in the house by not buying foods that are  unhealthy because of the ingredients or because I will eat ALL of the servings in the container in one sitting.  When my kids were younger, I didn’t keep soft drinks in the house on a regular basis or candy.  People who visited my house would ask, “Why don’t you let your kids eat candy or drink soft drinks?’  I responded, “It’s not that they don’t eat candy or drink soft drinks.  I have found that they come home with all that trash so I figured I didn’t have to buy it for them and keep it at home.” I decided that we got plenty of treats, snacks, and greasy stuff in our day-to-day lives outside of the house.  So, I figured we needed to have more sensible options at home.

Now that my kids are older, I tend to keep more of the things they enjoy, the healthy and the not so healthy foods, in the house.  I think it cool that they don’t over indulge in the not so healthy food options.  I am excited when they recognize when foods they are served are not fresh, but probably canned.  I am thrilled when they talk about their last workouts.  My kids have a legacy of great people in their lineage who have given marvelously to their families and communities.  These great family members have also given a medical history to me and my kids that I can’t change.  My goal is to teach my kids about as much of their medical history as I know and direct them to make choices that won’t enhance their probabilities of ever having to deal with those medical issues.  The only part of the family legacy I want my kids to own is the gift of greatness and the gift of good looks.  Ha!

My mother loved her hats and she loved her hat boxes just as much.  I don’t think I realized how many hats she really had until she got sick and I had to organize her things at her house.  Maybe part of her methodology was to keep things looking a little disorganized to make it difficult to get an accurate accounting of her wardrobe pieces and accessories.  I know that I have hidden things in the car or in the closet or tried to disguise new purchases so as not to bring attention to them until I was ready to justify the purchase.  I think my mother had a gift for creating this same type of confusion.  It was also helpful that she had four closets and the blessing of a deep top shelf in the walk-in closet in her room.

Mama loved the straw hats she wore in the southern heat.  I think all of her straw hats had large artificial flowers attached to them.  The one I remember most vividly was of the floppy, limp hat variety.  She wore it when she went out shopping or on picnics with her social club. Mama also donned straw hats when she worked in her flower garden.  Her hats completed her outfits even when she labored over her plants.

Mama also purchased beautiful hats for Sunday services.  She used to talk about “Sunday go to meeting clothes.”  Because being appropriately dressed for church was important to her, she invested her resources in making sure that she had an abundant selection of suits and dresses to wear to church and any other meeting for that matter.  No outfit was complete, however, without the accessories which included a hat.  There were hats in seemingly every color of the spectrum.  Her hats varied in shape, sizes, fabric textures, and color.  She had hats for all occasions like the black net for times she attended funerals or the pastel colored net for Easter service.  Some of the hats were accented with jewels and pins.  The selection of hats permitted her to coordinate the color and style of the hat with any dress or suit she might chose to wear for any occasion.  Most of her hats were stored in hat boxes with paper stuffed in them to maintain the shape.  In the years that led up to the start of her illness, she didn’t wear hats that often, but the hats remained a part of her identity.  I knew the hats were important to her, but I had no idea the hat boxes were valued by her to such a great extent until one particular visit to her home.

Once, my husband, my kids, and I went to visit Mama.  We spent days helping her clean out her frig, kitchen cabinets, and pantry.  Our visits home also involved taking her to run errands so that she could complete tasks that she saved until she had a visitor.  Often she used these trips as opportunities to reintroduce us to all of the folks she “traded” with in town.  It was always a rush to run all of the errands she had on her list and complete her list of chores before it was time for us to return home.  In addition, to the cleaning, errands, and chores, we had another ritual which involved pound cake.

My mom’s sister who lived in the area made the best pound cakes and every time we went home we would hope that Mama would remember to ask her sister to cook a pound cake for us.  All of us would survey the living room to see if the glass cake plate contained Auntie’s pound cake.  During the course of the visit, we would thank Auntie for baking the cake and we would also ask her to bake one for us to take home with us.  On this visit we ran short on time so in order for us to get the pound cake, another relative had to connect with my aunt and then deliver the cake to us.  Before we left, I put the cake which was already in a plastic bag into a brown paper bag.  My mother said, “You can’t take a pound cake on a plane in a paper bag!”  She went into her room and came back with a really pretty hat box.  I am not sure why it mattered if anyone knew that my paper bag held a cake wrapped in foil and tied up in a plastic bag.  It didn’t matter to me, but it mattered to my mama who ate her cake slices on a glass plate.  How did she ever raise a girl who was content to eat her pound cake over a napkin or over the palm of the other hand.

So, the pound cake played the role of a hat and found a temporary home in one of Mama’s prettiest and most prized hat boxes.  Mama felt a lot better about this method of transport.  She hugged me goodbye and said, “And don’t forget to bring my hat box back.”  I knew she meant every word of that directive.  My mother chose her words carefully and she loved what she loved.  I completely understood that she loved that hat box and she meant for me to bring it back to her unharmed.

We got on the flight in Birmingham and flew to Tampa.  After an enjoyable trip home, we landed in Tampa, got our bags, and got to the house.  As we pulled up to the house, I said, “Oh no! The cake!” I heard a swarm of other voices saying, “What?! The cake? Where?” Oh my goodness, we left the cake in the overhead compartment over our seats on the plane.  With fear and panic setting in I thought, “Oh no, Mama is going to kill me.”  I got on the phone quickly and called the airline to announce that I left a cake on the plane.  The nice lady said that they throw away food and beverages when they find perishable items that have been left on flights.  I told her that they wouldn’t know it was a cake because it was in a hat box.  She said, “Oh, well in that case, the hat box will be taken off of the flight when the plane is taken out of service.” I said, “Ok, good.  So, when can I come to the airport to pick up the hat box and the cake?” She responded, “That plane is on its way to Ft. Lauderdale.”  “What?! Do you think I will get the hat box back.  It is my mom’s and she will have a fit if I lose that hat box.”  The lady advised me that they would do a search for the hat and send a message to the folks at the South Florida airport to send the hat box with the cake back to Tampa.”  She came shy of promising that the cake and my mother’s hat box would be returned to me, but she did say that an airline representative would call if they recovered it and got it to Tampa.

Well, a day or so later I got a call that my package was at the airline office at the airport.  I raced over after work and the security guard outside let me leave my car at the curb while I ran in to collect my goods.  I remembered the directive to bring my picture I.D.  I quickly reached into my purse for the I.D. and ran into the airport.  I was greeted by the representative and I advised that I was there for a package.  I put my identification on the counter only to learn that I grabbed my credit card in my haste.  Frustration set in and I shook my head in disbelief.  The attendant asked what I was coming to retrieve and I said, “The cake in the hat box.”  Then, there was laughter.  The person said, “I will give it to you.  You are the only person I know who would be looking for a cake in a hat box.”  I was relieved to have Mama’s hat box back and thrilled that we were reunited with the pound cake.

Recently, I heard a comedian joking about people who say they are filled with the Holy Spirit.  The first time I ever heard anything about anyone “feeling the spirit,” being “filled with the spirit,” “getting the Holy Ghost,” or “getting happy” was when my dad’s mother started crying and praising the Lord at what seemed to me to be a very random time in the living room at my childhood home.  So, as a young child, her response to welcoming “the spirit” into her presence seemed very strange and weird.  As I remember the experience, I was headed into the living room with a light, skippy kid gait and froze in my tracks when I saw my grandmother twitching like she was having a seizure.  Huh?!  What the heck was going on?  She didn’t see me or realize I was there because she was definitely in the middle of some type of experience I did not understand.  I took that foot that was going to step forward and I put it down behind me, pivoted, and moved quickly and quietly in the other direction.  I went to find my daddy to tell him that something was going on with Big Mama.  I told him that she was reading her bible and singing a song and then something happened.  He said, “Oh, she’s  ok.  She just got the Holy Ghost.”  The thought bubble over my head read, “Oh, ok.  Thanks for making that clear, Daddy.”

“Getting the Holy Ghost” was not a normal occurrence in the church I grew up in where hymns and anthems were the custom.  My Big Mama was an evangelist who had a Pentecostal background. My church experience at Old Ship was a more formal service with a scripted format.  Outward expressions of your spiritual encounters were not discouraged; however, they just rarely happened.  In my church, you might have seen someone wipe a tear or give a head nod in approval of a point made by the pastor or in response to a scripture reading.   So, my Big Mama’s actions were pretty foreign to me as was my experience in my church one Sunday.  There was  an older sister who had been a visitor in the church for a few Sundays and she asked me to sit by her because she thought I was a sweet, cute little girl.  My mom thought it would be fine.  So, I agreed and took a seat way up front on the left side in about the second pew next to the lady.  I normally sat on the right side in the middle with other kids my age.  So, this move to sit with a woman who seemed very old to me on the far side of the church felt strange and uncomfortable.

My mother sang in the choir so I  spent a lot of time staring at her for reassurance.  She would give me her gentle smile and a head nod to assure me that I was performing an acceptable service to this old lady who needed the comfort of a young child.  Well, things were moving along like normal until the choir started singing a song.  We didn’t have a gospel choir at that time and even if we did they couldn’t have been singing that Sunday because my mom sang in the Cathedral Choir and a gospel song still would have sounded like an anthem if the Cathedral Choir sang it.  The pianist, the organist, and the choir had the melody bouncing from the stained glass windows and the dark wooden pews.  We had excellent musicians in our church who were very accomplished and respected.  My experience with the “Holy Ghost” had only been related to gospel music and the Pentecostal worshipper.  Because of my limited insights on this subject, I never expected that the Holy Ghost was even in my church and it never occurred to me that the Cathedral Choir and the gifted musicians could play anything that would invite the Holy Ghost up in that church.

Well, as the choir sang the selection, I soon figured out that my youthful worship experience was much different from that of the old lady next to me because she seemed to be the only one on the pew or in the general vicinity who knew that the song was ushering the spirit into the sanctuary and into her personal space.  I had no idea.  I was not aware until the smoothness of her black leather pocketbook slammed into my face as she sprang from her seat flinging her arms out to either side and proclaiming the name of the Lord and His goodness.  Shock and confusion overcame me.  I don’t believe there was any bruising, but I do remember the stinging sensation that followed the whack to the face.  What’s funny to me is that there was probably not a person, including the ushers, in my church who new the proper response to manage this worship expression.  I am almost certain in a church oozing with formality and protocol that there was nothing in the usher manual for this situation.  I don’t remember anyone coming to save me.  As I remember it, there were a lot of surprised looks and their thought bubbles probably said something like, “Oh my.  Who invited her?”  They might have also been thinking something similar to what I was thinking, “I will NEVER sit by this lady again in life!”

Writing about this experience reminds me of a time Big Mama was visiting us and my daddy dropped her off at Day Street Baptist Church.  She was always talking about how she wanted to find a church to attend when she was visiting our house.  I am not sure who told her that the service at this church would be more in line with her expectations for a worship service than my church. But, in all fairness, the black Baptist church had a reputation for being a bit more spirited than the A.M.E. Zion church my family attended.

Based on Big Mama’s intel, my daddy dropped her off at the church for the eleven o’clock service and came on back home.  At some point after the service began and prior to the scheduled end of the service, the phone rang at the house.   My daddy answered and I heard him say, “Ah huh. Ok. I’m on my way.”   He jumped up and grabbed his keys and I went too.  I said, “Where we going?”  He said, “I gotta go check on Mother.”  (He called Big Mama Mother.)  We hopped in the car and headed to the church.  When we drove up to the church, there were some men standing outside waiting for my father to arrive.  I think they were deacons or officers of the church.  I was sure Big Mama had gotten sick and needed medical attention.  I remember an “Aw hell, Mother” before my daddy went into the church.  The story was that they were having trouble moving the service forward because Big Mama had turned the sanctuary into a track meet.  She was running laps around the sanctuary exclaiming her love and gratitude for the Lord.   Like my church, this baptist church clearly had no protocol for this type of spiritual encounter either because they had to call my daddy and wait for him to get there to quiet the spirit and remove her from the church.  Oh my gosh, that had to be one of the funniest church memories.

I don’t know what experiences you have witnessed in churches, but these two and the one with the lady who rolled under pews in a Tennessee church after being “hit by the Spirit” made me cry with laughter.  The funniest part of that story was watching the ushers start to fan her with the church fans donated by the local funeral parlor then seeing the looks on their faces when she appeared to collapse even after their efforts to provide calmness and coolness.  We thought she fainted until we saw the ushers bending down and peering under pews like they were hunting Easter eggs.  Eventually, after rolling under three pews she surfaced at the front of the church.  They quickly popped a white sheet and covered her to prevent us from seeing all of her business.  Haha!  Too funny!  But, at least they had a plan.

My parents were school teachers.  They believed that they would retire in the school system in which they worked and that they would live in the same house all of their lives.  My parents believed they would work in the same field, in the same county, and have no change in their lives that meant a move would be initiated because of an employment change.  Those days of predictability, certainty, and security are gone for most folks, including my family.  Our family has lived in seven states and eight if we could count the state we lived in twice.  Over the years, we have lived in thirteen different houses or apartments plus two other places we maintained when we had a commuter family.

Each move delivers varied emotions and responsibilities. I think each move has a personality of its own with a story line like no other move.  For me, there was always the acceptance that the move was ahead and that change was visiting my house.  The decision to move was a decision that we controlled even when others believed the decision was inevitable because the job change occurred.  Once we decided to move,  the clock began running on the checklist of things that must be done before the scheduled move day from the current city and the list of things that must be done in the next city to prepare for the day my family and our belongings would arrive in the next city (keeping in mind that the things and the family may not arrive in the next city at the same time).

The most recent move brought some logistical issues that I had never encountered before simply because the move was from one coast to the other, from the southeastern region to the far western region of the country.  I was relocating to a place that resembled nothing that I considered familiar to me.  I was leaving the humid south for the dry dessert.  I was leaving an area with a melting pot of cultures and moving to a place with less cultural diversity.  I was moving from a place with seasonal concerns about tropical storms and hurricanes to live in a state where droughts and fires were common.  I had to keep redirecting my attention from the longing for the familiar to the task at hand – organizing and staging for the move.

Over the years, when I learned that we would be moving the first thing I did was contact the chamber of commerce in the new city to request a new resident packet.  The new resident packet always contained information about the city, including the events the locals enjoyed most, information about shopping in the area, facts about the schools, and a detailed map of the city.  I would read about the city and use the map to chart landmarks and street names to guide me directionally until I felt more comfortable driving around the city.  As intimidating as learning a new city was when we made the first move, it became the least of my concerns during later moves.  In more recent years, the internet has provided a new and welcomed method to learn about the targeted city.  I was able to visit the local chamber site then link to many other sites to gather information about my new city.

The checklist for the moves involved finding out whether the new employer would fund the move and if so how much was budgeted for the move.  The preliminary questions also included learning whether or not the employer had a moving company under contract a list of  the guidelines of the contractual agreement with the company that would pack, load, and move us.  You should find out if the new employer will pay the cost of transporting your vehicle(s), whether the company will pay for your family’s travel to the new city, and whether the move will include boats, livestock, or pets.  Call you insurance agent ahead of the move and inquire about insuring your property in the new state.  A call or search of the DMV site in the new state will also help you prepare for obtaining a new driver’s license and registration for you car(s).

Then, there was the paring down of things accumulated over the time we were in the last to determine what really needed to make the truck destined for the western desert.  The most recent move challenged me because most of our belongings were in a storage unit in Florida.  The unit housed almost everything that had been in our home in a midwestern state and those items that my husband used when he lived in a studio apartment the season prior in a southern state.  Because this move was of the cross-country variety, it would be more expensive than the regional moves we experienced in the past.  Additionally, we knew that whatever we left would be left forever.  This was also the first move in which we had to consider leaving a kid on the eastern side of the country to finish college, helping the other kid transition to yet another high school, and consider how life with a pet would impact the particulars of the move.

My trip to scout the new city had to be planned strategically.  It had to occur during the college spring break of one kid so that she could stay at the house with the other kid who was still in high school.  This trip to house hunt like other previous house hunting trips meant having a limited amount of time to search for housing and visit schools.  I had to get back to my kids.  So, before I left home I checked out the rental properties in the zip code of the high school that my husband decided would be the best option for our son.  I spoke to a realtor and gave him the list of properties that I wanted to see and the days that I could house hunt.  I also relayed the date we needed to move into the rental and the amount we budgeted for rent payments.  I had two days to find a place, visit the school to secure all registration materials for enrollment and sports, and take a driving tour of the city.

The best advice I have for the actual move is to build a good working relationship with the person who the moving company assigns to be your trip coordinator.  That person will assist you in coordinating the pick up and delivery of your shipment.  My coordinator was magnificent!  She reviewed the contract line by line with me to ensure that our shipment costs would not exceed the budgeted amount.  In addition, she removed unapproved charges placed on our bill by one of the shippers.  Moreover, she made certain that we received emergency funds to purchase food, a television, kitchen supplies, and hardware for our table after I called her to report that the movers left all of our televisions, all of the kitchen supplies, and the hardware for the tables in Florida.  The items we labeled as the most important items in the shipment had been left many states away when the crew ran out of space in the moving van.  What a mess! This mess upset my perfectly timed cable television installation for almost a week and it was NBA Finals season so my son was not happy.

If you ever have to move, I hope that something I wrote better prepares you for your move or provides a tip or two to enhance your relocation experience.  You should also know that no matter how well you plan something will happen during the process that you could not have planned or expected.  When those unexpected things happen address them as best you can and move on handling the things you can control like lining up the boxes in a specified location creating aisles between the boxes so that you can walk between the boxes when the time comes to check box numbers in an effort to ensure all of your property was delivered.   Also, make sure you use the help of the crew to help you place furniture so that you won’t have to do it after the movers are gone.  Make sue that you walk out to the truck near the end of the delivery and engage them in friendly conversation while you scan the truck for anything they may have left on the truck.

Make the best of the challenges that will come and find ways to enjoy the time that you must wait for the challenge(s) to be resolved.  My children said that it had been a long time since we played boardgames and just hung out without technology.  Since we had no television and no internet access, we opened the boxes of boardgames.  We played, we laughed, and did a lot of trash talking.  I can assure you that in the months and years that follow the move and the challenges it brought, you will laugh and shake your head when you think about the craziness that made the move frustrating.  I promise.