Ever since I was small, Americans have been known as people on the move. Now that I have lived in San Diego more than 25 years, I do not miss the curse adventure of moving every three to four years (I was in the Navy). While I have not had to move my own things in two decades, I have still been a mover. As in someone who moves stuff for people. In our church family, over twenty years, the same friends seem to be always present to assist one another’s relatives, other congregation members and even our ministers move into or out of the community.
Five years ago I swore that was the last time I would help someone move. Nursing strained muscles and aching joints, Dialing Bekins movers as I recall, was going to be my future response to a request for assistance. However, after decades of friendship with a couple, their request for assistance was met with an automatic “Yes”. With the promise of “just” moving boxes and not furniture, I found myself working with the husband, another of our buddies, and a thirty-something member of the congregation loading boxes and bins. I was very glad we had the strongest of their two sons helping heave as T– had an enormous handmade workbench “heirloom”, several large shop tools, and a patio dining table to go into the van. After three hours of non-stop stacking, the truck was filled all the way to the rear rollup door. A half-hour later, the “relief” crew (still us) emptied the van at the family’s new residence across town. Prior to this week, I was feeling guilty that our home exercise room has not seen a lot of use since Christmas. After this last Monday’s adventure, I have a mission. I need to move bins and boxes in that room, placed there a few weeks ago when we had some work done in the house. Calisthenics with some free weights, and the aerobics I get when walking Dexter and Comet, get me moving. However, the next time I get a call to help someone move, I will just say, “Let me call Bekins for you.”
It's a Dog's Life 