Shooting the Move

It’s that time of year again, when thousands of military service members box up their lives and move to a new duty station. Military folks tend to be fairly organized and well-prepared, but no matter how much planning goes into it, every military household goods move is essentially a craps shoot.

Yougo out and buy reclosable storage bags and permanent markers, but still lose the irreplaceable hardware that goes with one-of-a-kind furniture pieces bought overseas.You ask friends to watch your kids soyoucan constantly monitor the pack out, butyou know that something will be lost, stolen or arrive broken.You can only pray that it’s that particle board microwave cartyou have always hated, but it somehow miraculously survived every move. Face it, no matter what you do, your move is a gamble that you cannot completely control.

Our first mover’s name was “Rusty,” a tiny, swarthy old truck driver, who held a clip board and told his crew exactly what to do. He had been in the moving business for years and had seen many a household goods move. Over lunch, he sat on the hydraulic platform at the back of his rig and told us stories of moves gone by.

“I’ve never had a late delivery. Even back in my drinkin’ days, I didn’t miss a beat. Why, one time after a fifth of Wild Turkey, I drove from Mississippi clear into Texas and had absolutely no recollection of it.”

As we watched him drive off with our priceless belongings, we muttered a quick prayer that he would stay off the sauce a bit longer.

Our second move from California to England went off without a hitch. The California movers were so cool and laid back. They were appreciative of the pizza we bought them, and seemed to just want to get the job done so they could hit the beach before it got dark.

Our move from England to Virginia was similarly pleasant. The English movers were friendly young mates who were content to chat with us during their smoke breaks. Given a choice of take out lunches, they picked fish, chips and pints of lager, and we were glad to oblige. Unlike the American movers, the English wanted to sit down at a proper table to eat, so they assembled at our kitchen table with us like one big happy family.

At the end of the day we bid them “tarah” and they drove away with our neatly packed belongings. Only later did we realize that they’d “nicked” our TV.

These relatively pleasant experiences came to a screeching halt with the movers who unpacked us in Virginia. As always, we were scheduled for a “full unpack” because I had a toddler and a six month old baby, and no time to unwrap nick knacks. As the truck arrived two hours late, my husband and I stood on the porch ready to greet them.

After meeting the crew foreman, I started to tell him that I would buy them all lunch that day. Although I had pizza or sandwiches in mind, the foreman interrupted me to demand, “We’ll take fried chicken, biscuits, gravy, mashed potatoes, coleslaw and sweet tea.” Somewhat shocked by his gutsy request, I agreed to get them what they wanted, and hoped that this would win some favor with the crew.

Soon after my conversation with the foreman, a crew person walked up to me and introduced himself. “Hello Ma’am, my name is Mohammed and I am Muslim. Today is Ramadan and I have to fast until dark; is there any way that you could save me some food?” I happily agreed to put some food aside for him, but he had one more request: “Would you mind if I found a quiet place to pray somewhere here today?” I told him that there was no problem whatsoever and that he could pray anywhere he wanted to in my house.

Later that afternoon, I finally got my toddler to sleep on a make-shift bed in the playroom but was tired of carrying around my six-month old daughter. I needed to find a place to nurse her in private, and get her down for a nap. All the rooms except the spare bedroom were in a half state of completion, and it had a huge walk in closet that was a perfect quiet place for the baby’s little nap. I went into the closet, closed the door and lay down on the floor with a blanket and began to nurse the baby.

About 10 minutes later, the baby was drifting off to sleep, when I heard the spare bedroom door open. Uh oh. The door clicked shut again, and I hoped that, whoever that was, he was gone. Then, I heard a rhythmic chant coming from just outside the closet door. Oh no. You have got to be kidding me. I peeked through the slats of the closet door. It was Mohammed and he was kneeling in the middle of our spare bedroom floor, apparently facing Mecca and deep in prayer.

What should I do? I have no idea how long this will last? Should I surprise him and walk out of this closet or wait it out in here? Feeling like I was invading his sacred privacy, I chose the former course of action, and popped my head out of the closet door.

“Howdy, Mohammed! Sorry to interrupt, I’ll just scoot on out of here and leave you in peace. Toodaloo!”

All day long, I accommodated the demands of the moving crew, but by six-o-clock, I was over it. The movers were nowhere near done unpacking our household goods as promised, and we were getting more and more frustrated with them. None of the beds had been taken out of the wrapping much less assembled, so I finally demanded that they stop what they were doing and put the crib together. Being fairly well organized, I had the Instruction sheet and all the hardware ready for them.

An hour later, the designated crew member gave up on assembling the crib and surrendered. He could not figure it out. The foreman called the whole event off and they left, but not before Mohammed collected the chicken lunch I had put aside for him.

Years later, when we left Virginia to come to Germany, the memories of any bad moving experiences had faded, and we were naively hopeful for a problem-free move. I put out coffee and doughnuts in the morning. I went ahead and bought the fried chicken and all the side dishes, not bothering to ask the movers what they wanted for lunch. I put out boxes of reclosable storage bags, tape and permanent markers for the movers to secure hardware and small pieces. I had a cooler of cold beverages to keep them hydrated and happy.

A few hours later, I watched out a window in horror. A crew member held his shirt out with one hand, forming a little hammock, and used the other hand to throw in metal support pieces from our bookcases. He then carried them over to one of the wooden crates, and threw handfuls of the pieces into the crate between furniture and boxes.

I ran outside and immediately protested, reminding him of the baggies I gave him for this purpose. “Trust me Ma’am, you will find all the pieces. Here’s what you do, just make sure that when you get to your new place, you shake the paper at the bottom of the crate out. Trust me, all the pieces will be there.”

Of course, they were not.

So what am I saying? Should we all forget about the reclosable baggies and permanent markers? Should we give up on buying the movers lunch to “butter” them up? Should we completely throw caution to the wind and plan a nice day out at the mall on moving day?

Probably not a good idea. But, we do need to be more realistic about certain absolutes in life: We all die, we all pay taxes, and that damned microwave cart will live to see another day.