Some people live under the same roof for their entire lives. The majority of us, though, have crammed everything we own into the back of a truck at least once or twice.
I’ve moved many times in the past several years. There were the moves from home to college and from college to home. There was the move from my parents’ house into my first apartment and from that apartment into another.
Between each move, I acquired more furniture, clothes and knickknacks. But with a little help from family and friends, each time we managed to pack and lug my possessions from one place to the next.
This week, we became first-time homeowners. I thought I was up to the challenge of moving everything I own from Falconer to Jamestown, but I had never moved on a February weekday in 7-degree temperatures.
Excluding my stepbrother, who had the day off, my relatives were spared the heavy lifting, this time anyway. They’re probably not too sorry about that, and I don’t blame them.
I knew Wednesday wasn’t the greatest day for two guys to lift couches through the snow, but I’ve never found the time for patience. Once I had the keys to the house, I couldn’t wait until the weekend to move, and I definitely wasn’t going to make it to spring.
It was cold, we were wet and I was mighty tired by the time we finished dragging the heavy stuff through the house. It turns out I haven’t gotten any stronger since the last time I moved.
Despite the frigid weather, hard work and a mishap that left the dining room table looking a little worse for wear, my stepbrother and I had a surprisingly good time. However, I am looking forward to our furniture staying put for a while.
I have a few favors to return to friends and relatives, and I will probably be on someone’s speed dial for their next move. But I think I’ve found a place to call home, and I won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.