The move should have taken 4 to 6 hours. This is what the moving company rep estimated. Twenty-four hours later, after the first box had been placed on the moving van, I was finally unsettled in my new home and completely exhausted though I hadn’t lifted even a lamp shade. My relocation from D.C. to Baltimore spanned fifty miles, and was only a forty-five minute drive on most days.

I was tired and not quite myself.  I was hungry, too.  I could have made something out of the dry goods I had hurriedly packed, but the idea of foraging for gluten free pasta, lentils, or chicken bouillon cubes in my current state made me want to curl up in the fetal position. The move having been a sudden one, left me unfamiliar with my new neighborhood, and I was too exhausted to wander around in order to locate the nearest: chicken, sandwich, pizza, or Chinese carryout. So, tired, not quite myself, and hungry, I decided to do the one thing I wouldn’t dare do under any other circumstances: I called my mother in Florida.

I plopped down on new wood floors installed only hours before. Floors hurriedly installed to replace the laminate that had been selected by the I’m gonna do my best to jack you seller. The laminate, though new, was crazy laminate. So crazy, I remarked to my realtor Oral, “What’s with the floors? That looks like tiger print.” 

“Yeah, and it’s already starting to pop up,” he laughed. This was regrettable because I already knew this was the house, and I knew that the slap it up, stomp it down “rehab” seller wasn’t about to budge on the price.  Still, I couldn’t abide moving to a new city, knowing not one soul, with tiger print floors, so I had to find someone quick, fast and in a hurry to properly install actual wood floors, at my expense. The installers, having got a late start, were not finished when the moving van arrived, which is how my stuff ended up spending the night on lock down in the Mayflower moving van.

Even as the installers moved quickly to pack up and make way for the movers, I now had to come to terms with a reality that I had barely let cross my mind: What if my old life doesn’t fit my new life? Before the move, I didn’t have time to give this much thought. I was too busy trying to stay one step ahead of the sheriff and the promised foreclosure of my home, and was all but paralyzed at the thought of selling my DC home and finding a new place to live within thirty days. The question of whether my big furniture would fit my new Baltimore home was low on my “bucket list” of things needing to be attended to in order for me to make a clean break and have a fresh start. 

The grumbling began before the first stick of furniture came off the van. A collective low grunt, the grousing freely emitted by those who literally hold your life in their calloused hands; grousing you're pretty sure they mean for you to hear: “We’ll be lucky to get half this shit in that house. 

So, in order to put an end to all the “It’s just not going to happen, ma’am, but we can take that armoire, sofa, entertainment center, box spring, etc, etc, etc, off your hands. I mean, you seem like a nice lady, so as a favor to you, we can help you out, haul it away, no charge to you -- if you want,” I had to suck it in, forget about the newly painted walls and spackled ceilings, and make it clear to my motley band of grousers that they were to, “Just shove it in!  ‘Cause, we’re getting all, every bit of my shit it in the house.” And, in an effort to stay true to their motto of providing superior customer service, they did shove it. I’ve got the dinged and thoroughly messed up walls and ceilings to prove it.

So, while alternating between being dazed by dinged walls, but bedazzled with my new non-tiger print floors, I dialed my mother to clue her in on the last twenty-four hours.

Me:  I think I might be what some people consider a hoarder.

Her silent, then: Well, why in the world would you say something like that about yourself? 

Me:  Sometimes, you just have to look at your life, and be truthful about what you see.

Her silent, then:  Well, it’s one thing to say this to me, but I certainly hope you’re not running around saying this to anyone else.

Me: Why not?  I’m not saying I’m like the people on those reality shows; I’m not like that.

Her:  They have TV shows?

Me: Yeah, ma.  You get cable.  You’ve seen them.

Her:  I certainly have not.  I have cable, but my package doesn’t have any whore reality shows.

Now, after having reviewed this brief interchange, I’m forced to decide whether to inform her that I, her oldest daughter, did not just confess to being a whore. Then, for sure, moving on to become highly indignant that she, my mother, would actually think I was saying this thing about myself, and with her having not asked for a bit of clarification. Or, I could simply for the sake of my tiredness, my being out of sorts, my hunger, our continued mother/daughter relationship, UPS her.  Because she is my mother, out of respect, I decided to UPS the whole situation and cut her some slack.

“What was that?  Hold on, a minute, ma. Oh, let me call you back. It’s UPS.  I’ve got to go.”

UPSing, probably wouldn’t work on the average mother.  But with my mother being hyperactive, the ultimate type “A”, overachieving senior, and a Mormon, I knew the likelihood of her remembering or wanting to revisit a conversation where her daughter admits to being a whore was doubtful.

But if we had continued our conversation, after my clarification of my non-whore status, I would have concluded that though not a hoarder, I am an avowed collector.  That, if it were up to me, I’d still have first bowed lock of hair, first baby tooth and rattle, along with all my report and birthday cards from those early years.  But it wasn’t up to me.  That was a decision belonging to my nomadic mother, who lives to be unencumbered.

Even so, as I sat in my small house, surrounded by my big furniture, I was overcome by what my granddaddy would have called the willies. These willies have been with me awhile now. Even before the threat of foreclosure; I had this closed in feeling, one so tight at times I’m barely taking breaths. I remember feeling this way right after finishing a temp assignment at the Smithsonian on 9/11.  Before 911, I was satisfied to walk out of my house and look sharp: shoes, clothes, hair, all the components necessary for living a contented consumption-based life. I was happy to have made a home that when people entered they nodded, saying, “Yeah, I see it. This is so you.”  I just wanted to nest and be safe. Now, the voice in my head just wants to know, “God, why did I think I needed to have that?  Why can’t I make any of this work? And, of course, how will I ever make things right again?” 

Nothing from my past life fits in Baltimore. It’s as if everything that suited my DC life (now stuffed inside my new house) – those ghosts of my past life – only remain to remind me that things really do need to change. 

And, I am changing. I know this. I can feel it. Perhaps, I’m just turning into my nomadic mother, though I hope not. Unlike my mother, I like those tokens, keepsakes that tug at my heart and stir my memories.  I like having all my touchstones close at hand and would miss them if I did not have them. Perhaps, with all that’s happened over the last couple years: sickness, threat of foreclosure, and underemployment, I’m merely morphing into my better self. I hope so.

©2010 Willett Thomas