Super Truck Boxes Congeal in Kitchen
It has been an eventful week for Nazy and me. All atwitter after receiving the news that our container had been randomly selected for a detailed customs inspection...
“Atwitter, Dan?”
“I’ve used that word in it’s pre-internet sense. I don’t mean that we were tweeting.”
“You may find ‘archaic’ attached to a dictionary definition of atwitter,” Nazy claimed.
“And I may not!” I said, aware that Nazy’s assertion should not be unchallenged. “I should have replied more cleverly.” I thought.
Outraged and indignant when we heard that governmental import tax authorities would invoice us for the costs of their inspection, we were unfortunately also aware of the deficit problem. I explained our vulnerable state to Nazy.
“They won’t stop the war in Afghanistan, they ‘need’ another air craft carrier, social security is off the table and they’ve only raised income taxes on the richest 1%. [The ones who can afford tax accountants that eliminate taxes.]. Washington decided that we will close the deficit..”
We were astonished when our container was cleared in less than 24 hours. Nazy, who had been skeptical about my “overwrought concern” triumphantly trumpeted the accuracy of her position:
“See?”
“We got a bill for $710,” I muttered.
“That won’t close the deficit, dear.”
With the truck scheduled, Nazy and I took a serious look at the new apartment. Nazy was initially excited because there was room for her closets. [Apartments in Switzerland do not come with closets. So, over the 12 years we were resident, we gradually assembled an imposing wardrobe complete with shelves, drawers, hooks, hangers, turntables, racks and mirrors.] Nazy had been worried that this imposing edifice would be too tall. Although the closets fit, there wouldn’t be room on top for Nazy’s hat boxes. We weren’t so fortunate with other items.
“Our furniture won’t fit!” Nazy noticed.
“I’m glad that we got rid of the piano,” I thought. “If we’re concerned now, before we’ve seen super-truck carrying our belongings...” I began.
“We need more storage!” Nazy exclaimed. I thought simultaneously: “We need more storage,”
Having achieved a rare and instantaneous meeting of the minds, I arranged ‘more storage’ with our shipping agent. And..
“All we have to do, Nazy,” I explained, “is tell the unloaders about what to keep in the truck.”
“That’s All?” Nazy replied. Ironically. Accurately!
Our truck arrived. The driver handed me a bill and a checklist.
“Just put a circle around the boxes you want to store,” he said. Picking out the furniture that was too large for the new abode was relatively easy. I was also thrilled to discover helpful commentary on individual boxes. [We left box 311 in the truck.]
Challenges arose as the unloading activity accelerated. Nazy and I realized that we couldn’t tell what boxes contained items that would had been stored in the cabinets that were being returned to storage...
“there will be no place to put the stuff in many of these boxes.”
“We will just have to...”
“I don’t think you understand the, eh, gravity of the situation, Nazy.” I continued. “As the movers continue to stack boxes in the living room, the accumulated mass will trigger gravitational collapse. The boxes will be pulled inward, density wiil increase, temperatures will rise. Atomic structure will break down as electrons and protons are squashed together to form neutrons. The ensuring amalgamation will crash through the floor and sink to the planetary core - building mass sufficient to create a black hole. We threaten the very existence of ..”
“Can you assemble the closet?” Nazy asked - unfazed by the threat of planetary devastation.
“Of course,” I replied. “Can you find my tool box?” “I’ll need to contract Bechtel for a large construction team,” I thought. “We used them at Shell to build an off-shore oil platform.”
When unloading was completed, the movers reloaded the truck with an embarrassingly large amount of stuff to be stored. With trepidation, Nazy and I squeezed our way into the apartment.
“It’s hopeless,” I thought - momentarily. Then: “Nazy!” I exclaimed. “An idea just crossed my mind.”
“That was a short journey...”
“Clever. We can clear this out by putting all of the kitchen stuff in the refrigerator. It’s got more shelf space than our ..”
On Saturday, Mitra drove up from LA to help with the unpacking. We began with the highest priority issue by stopping at a garden shop to get some flowers. I explained the magnitude of the challenge while we were browsing. Mitra was predictably positive.
“You’ve moved before Dad. You know how to do it.”
“The last international move was 12 years ago, Mitra.”
“It’s like riding a bike..”
My thoughts drifted to High School times: I was a freshman delivering newspapers. A bit late for my early delivery, I was accelerating down the final hill on my route. Standing up, I pushed the pedals as hard as I could and then --- the right pedal broke. My foot slammed into the ground, my bicycle. And then I thought about my bicycle experiences in Holland..”
“I broke my wrist the last time I was on a bicycle.”
“That wasn’t the last time you were on a bike, Dad.”
“Don’t ruin a good story with facts, Mitra.”
Together, Nazy, Mitra and I attacked boxes in the kitchen. Nazy filled the cabinets as we emptied the boxes. We were elated when we cleared enough space to move around.
“This is great!” I exclaimed. “Everything fit.”
[I hadn’t seen the 15 boxes of ‘Kitchen’ that were stacked in the dining room