Bekipedia

US Steel contacted Fred Friday afternoon before he left his office to inform him that they would send the movers in the next few weeks to finish packing our house and moving us to Birmingham where Fred will take over the Temper Mill. He and I are running down to Birmingham next Saturday so we can meet with a realtor about rental houses because we don’t know the area yet that we would feel comfortable living in. Once we get a six-month rental on a house, we’re driving back up so that we can attend the closing on our home that following Friday then turn around with Meghan and Nevin and drive back down to Birmingham.
Nevin has already been invited to a “spend the night” with his favorite cousin, Dylan, the weekend of September 12 for Dylan’s sixth birthday so Meg and Nevin will probably spend a few days in Florida while they’re down in south Alabama. Naturally, Nev thinks that moving to Alabama means lots of birthday parties, and he’s mostly right. All of the little cousins in Pensacola want him at their birthday parties so he’s ecstatic to have family all his own.
Fred’s thrilled that the wait is over, and he’s finally worked on the garage today so that Todd could move all 62 boxes I already packed out of the house where we were beginning to bump into them. He’s called all of his family and planned time in Florida with them.
Ian called last night and is looking into investing in an oyster farm with his friend, Jason, down in Cedar Key, Florida. He sounded really pumped about it, and Fred and I told him to go for it . . . life’s short.
Meghan’s just geared up like there’s a fire lit under her. She’s ready to finally leave Indiana and start a new life for her and her son.
And I’m ready to sleep for a thousand hours then awaken refreshed. Finally.

God, I hate to pack.

I hate sitting down with everything and going through it and examining it and turning it over and over in my hands while I wonder what in the Hell we kept this thing for.  Apparently Fred has noticed that I am quite loathe to part with anything, and I think that it’s driving him nuts.  He hovers around me while I’m packing, questioning everything I am wrapping up in paper and carefully depositing into an open box.  He’s become so suspicious of already wrapped objects that he feels compelled to unwrap and look at them, all the long while questioning and questioning and questioning until I want to throw a book at his head.  After seventeen tedious moves, he still goes through the motions of packing.  We both know that I do the packing, the sorting, the trips to Goodwill, the filing, more packing, more sorting.  It’s mine.

But last night I just wasn’t in the mood for this dance.

He was down here in what used to be my studio, asking me why I was unloading all of the bookshelves upstairs and carrying the books in stacks in my arms down the stairs to finally be wrapped (some of them) and packed.  While he patiently explained to me that I could pack the boxes upstairs and then carry them down, I just stared at him.  He explained that this would eliminate more work for me.  I continued to stare.  He even showed me with his hands just how simple it would be to half pack the boxes with books then carry them down.

I want a vacation.  Somewhere warm and quiet and peaceful and soothing to my soul with a nightstand piled high with books I haven’t yet read.  I also want to lay down at the edge of the shoreline and let the warm water wash over me while I lay there.

Obviously, I stared Fred right out of the room and back up the stairs where I believed he was going to half pack a box and demonstrate to me how to pack the house up.  After about another hour of packing, I put the strapping tape to the side and went up the stairs to see what progress Fred had made.  She Wore A Yellow Ribbon with John Wayne was blaring from the bedroom so I quickly deduced that Fred was done packing for the night.

And so was I.

Thank God!!!!

Last week we took Nevin and his parents and the neighbors across the street with their daughter to the County Fair. It’s become a tradition that Nevin and Alaina go to the Fair together every year so this year was no exception . . . I mean, at the tender ages of four, Nevin and Alaina have accumulated a lot of traditions together since they are the only ones who have consistently played together since they were 18 months old and wearing diapers. They are like two comfortable old shoes together, and they swear they will be friends all of their lives and will kill for each other if they run into bad guys.

Anyway, long story short (I always wanted to write or say that since I am as long winded as a two-day hurricane), I really got into the groove of the Fair, clapping when Nevin won stuffed animals with his dart skills, oh-ing and ah-ing at everything, and making sure that Nevin and Alaina went to the Dems’ booth to be made over and given candy. Then it was time for the rides, and I dutifully waited and smiled and waved as Nevin and Alaina chugged around in a circle on their little rides, screaming and yelling like they were on a death defying track.  As the sweet evening progressed, and the lights really came on, I decided to stand next to Nevin on the Merry-go-Round. I hadn’t been on rides in years at the Fair so I figured that the Merry-go-Round was a rather safe spring board. In my mind’s eye I kept seeing Nevin slipping away from my death grip and flailing around underneath that heavy big Merry-go-Round so I didn’t enjoy it as much as I should have but I kept on smiling happily (kudos to Kathy Butterfield) as this ride seemed to go on forever and ever and ever until finally it slowed to a stop, and I sighed with relief as I walked Nevin out of there.  He, being the child that he is, displayed no symptoms of motion sickness and skipped along next to me while I kept telling myself silently, “Don’t pass out in front of the children . . . . don’t pass out in front of the children.”

Next on the agenda was the Ferris Wheel, and I blindly stood in line with Fred, Alaina and Nevin, thinking nothing of riding this wheel in the sky until I actually got inside one of those open-air compartments with little tiny doors that dangled at the sides for - get this one! -  “protection”.

I sat there, stone still, wondering how to get off of it as we went higher and higher with every new rider getting on. Fred even thought that by rocking this laundry basket in the air that I would “get with the program” and begin to enjoy myself. What I remember the most was the sensation of losing myself when we would round the top and come on down in a swoosh, and I closed my eyes for the rest of the ride.

Even now - a week later - I still remember that sensation, and I hate it.

What IS this? I hope that it goes away.

We had some of the neighbors over for a cookout and birthday cake and ice cream to celebrate Nevin’s 5th birthday. When I was playing with him in the pool earlier that afternoon, he kept jumping up and down and telling me that he knew he was five years old because he could jump higher in the water than he could the day before his birthday. Nev even told me, “Five feels better!”

Oh, I’ll bet it does. What a dear boy he is.

The extra inspections for the electrical and plumbing went off without a hitch. The buyers’ realtor showed up then one of the buyers showed up, armed with a clip board and a huge black briefcase, his pen poised in anticipation of finding more things wrong with the house so he could be savvy and bargain down with us. Poor guy . . . he is so new at home buying. We could sense his disappointment when the plumber/electrician told him and his realtor that nothing was unsafe. Hey, we’re just looking ahead to packing, which is what I’m doing all morning here.

Packing the kitchen is laborious so I’m getting rid of a lot of insanity by packing it all up except for the wok, the electric griddle, two sauce pans, and one George Foreman grill. The rest of the time we can use the grill in the back yard.

US Steel is still in negotiations with the Union so Fred hasn’t received any answers except for the plant manager down in Birmingham who is slowly going nuts trying to get Fred down there by his start date of September 2nd. The head of HR in Pittsburgh was finally told of what is transpiring, which sure ain’t much, and she’s now involved. Maybe we’ll have an answer by next week.

Fred and I have been very edgy and off kilter with each other since we began to realize that our move to Birmingham was happening with lots of hitches in the middle. We’ve had many long silences and many mind numbing hours where we absolutely say nothing to each other in the evening. If we begin to speak of any of this, I end up crying, and he ends up walking away in disgust. It’s just too damned hard for us to look ahead some of the time when we’re wallowing in this quagmire of indecision. Fred told me that the new schedule came out for August, and he’s written in until the 15th of August . . . then they have written in “Fairfield, Alabama” so maybe the scheduler knows something we don’t know but we doubt it. I mean . . . come on . . . Fred’s the scheduler’s boss. Please.

Whenever it all begins to feel enormous, I go lift weights or walk on the elliptical while YoYo Ma sweetens the air around me. Hell, it’s not even happy exercising . . . it’s angry and confused exercise until I feel the burn then I keep on going for awhile until I can’t go on anymore. Then my head begins to feel clear, and I’m back at packing again. If the exercise doesn’t kick in, I get in the pool for awhile and do nothing more than float around with my eyes closed, trying like Hell to clear my head.

Yesterday the two sweet neighbor kids from next door came over to swim for awhile. I lay in a chaise on the deck and listened with my eyes closed as Cameron and Carmen screamed and jumped around and played “Marco Polo” and laughed themselves silly. What a delightful diversion from the rest of reality around here.

I am extremely grateful that it is a beautiful and breezy day here.  We’re going to the County Fair with Nevin and everyone else this evening.  He is our little love.

Jeff, our realtor, just left after going over the terms of the inspection with us.  The buyers now want a plumber and an electrician called in for independent inspections, and we’re going along with this bullshit for awhile.  I will be here on the premises for both inspections, asking to look at these new inspectors’ licenses and certifications before I let them in the house.  Gee . . . if this makes the buyers uncomfortable, so be it.

The requests they are going to make will be looked over next week but they have been given ten days to get this crap over and done with.  Fred and I have been very compliant with their requests but that will soon come to a close.  We’re not talking about the Taj Majal here, people . . . it’s an unassuming bi-level in a low tax area.

And US Steel?

Fred has given them until Friday - two days from now - to get off their collective asses and make up their minds what they are doing with his transfer or he is prepared to tell them to stick the transfer.  And we’re not stressing about much anymore.  What is going to happen will happen.

The game continues.

Oh, yes, Fred and I are fairly impatient people when it comes to having to wait for something that looks rather simple but he has way more patience than I do.  The couple who bid on our home came here on Saturday and spent close to three hours with a home inspector, looking for anything out of the ordinary.  It’s now Tuesday, and the realtors just received the inspection at their office . . . now I have to wait for our realtor to contact us with the info.  I’m sick of waiting.

Fred also discovered last week that his transfer may not go through which puts us in the exhausting situation of possibly having to find a new home here in this area.  Since the closing on the house is August 22 with the buyers taking possession on the 29th (and this all hinges on what the inspection came back with), we’re feeling very rushed . . . actually, we’re pretty freaked out about the news from U S Steel.  This is how they treat faithful and loyal employees . . . throwing them under the bus.  Fred is a very good man and a decent human being, and I am sickened to my bones at how carelessly he’s being treated.

Being Fred, and being very laid back, he has reassured me that it doesn’t matter to him where we live.  I know that he chose Birmingham because of the proximity to Pensacola and the relatively “do-able” drive to Indiana.  Yes, he would like to go back home to the South where he understands how to play the game down there but he also said that we’ll deal with whatever is thrown our way.  He always rolls with the punches and the changes but we’ve spent hours upon hours scrolling down the lists of homes we’re attracted to in the Birmingham area, and the thought of having to start a real estate search here in this area leaves me so tired.

So we’re playing the waiting game.  I’m waiting for the call of “Game Over!!!”

Step One

Wait patiently while husband also waits for the package from Human Resources to arrive with information about husband’s transfer to Alabama.

Step Two

Put home on the market to sell, keeping it immaculate 24-hours-a-day.

Step Three

Discover that you are the executrix to your dead parents’ will, two years after the last remaining parent dies.

Step Four

Find out that oil and mineral rights to a parcel of land in the mountains needs to be transferred from dead parents’ names to siblings’ names and done without breaking said siblings’ bank accounts.

So there you are, people. Four simple ways to slowly lose your mind. It requires lots of juggling, shuffling things around, dealing with strangers, reassuring family members, feeling as though you are at the mercy of everyone’s demands, knowing fully well that it is impossible to please everyone all of the time but trying like Hell to do it.

Now, I would like everyone reading this to collectively say, “This, too, shall pass”, and I know that I will feel it.  And, thank you.

As I floated on my back in Ruth and Rex’s pool in Florida, I pondered the word “vacation” and how someone came up with a word that begins with the word “vacate” which I have always associated with one of my friends back in the Seventies being asked to “Vacate the Premises” as they forgot to get a job to pay for their apartment. I just never gave it much thought beyond that. Meanwhile I happily and mindlessly coasted through life planning a vacation every August so Fred could get away from the Northern-ness of living in the North and go back home to the South where things are way more casual, intensely more friendly, and so completely laid back and Southern.

It wasn’t until Nevin asked me, “What does vacation mean?” that I grabbed the old Webster’s off the shelf - sorry, there are times that are deeply ingrained in me from childhood and one is to grab the Webster’s, which I obviously could not do so sweetly and adequately with the internet - and I showed Nevin how to look up words. We discovered that until the 14th Century nobody took vacations. They worked, slept, ate, had sex, had offspring, then they worked some more, slept some more, ate some more, you get my drift . . . since mere survival was so damned hard, I really doubt that most of them had thought about “getting away from it all” like we all think of doing today.

The morning that we all left for vacation, Nevin eagerly climbed into the backseat of the car with me, and asked, “Is vacation here now?” As I pulled out the new color books, the new colored pencils, a medium sized pad of drawing paper, and a fresh smelling new box of Crayola’s, I informed him that vacation had indeed begun. Nevin and I colored and read and daydreamed our way down to Florida, watching movies on the portable DVD, and pointing out things to each other on the road, and I kept imagining being in Ruth and Rex’s pool, floating lazily in the warm water. So when I was finally floating in their pool, half listening to those sweet Southern drawls of his sisters as they all buzzed around Fred, waiting on him hand and foot, laughing at his stories, offering him more iced tea, asking him if he wanted fried shrimp or shrimp cocktail that night for supper, I was glad in my bones that the word vacation grew from meaning - rather loosely - to leave and was replaced with “a period spent away from home or business in travel or recreation”.

The batteries are purchased for the cameras, the tires on my car have been rotated and balanced, the oil has been changed, the tank is full, we’re pretty well packed, and Nevin has been afraid of going on vacation until yesterday when we discovered that he thought that going to see the Blue Angels in Pensacola meant that we were all going to die and go to Heaven to see God and the angels. Upon hearing this news, Fred promptly took him downstairs to the office and pulled up pictures and videos of the Blue Angels so Nev could see them in action. Being the “guy” that he is, Nevin got into the Blue Angels big time after that and can’t wait until next Wednesday when we go to their practice out at NAS.

And me? I can’t wait to actually get out of the car at Dad Swope’s house so I can wander on down to the dock and cast a line with Nevin in the soft mellow heat of late afternoon. I’m also looking forward to sitting on the dock the next morning, listening to all of the lake life wake up as I sip my first cup of coffee for the day and watch the mist slip quietly across the lake’s surface. I’m ready for Fred’s family’s reunion later Sunday, and I’m ready for the beach and the pools and the sun and the warmth, the conversations eddying around me in those casual Southern drawls, the sounds of food being laid out, the laughter and the joking that goes on with Fred’s brother and sisters . . . well, Hell, I’m ready for vacation after all.

For someone who used to climb on the back of a hog and throw caution to the wind, I have become more nervous about driving on I-65 since everyone appears to be talking on a cell phone in the left lane, drifting across the highway once in awhile in their attempt to keep their conversations going, while the rest of us drivers slow down or speed up to get around these morons. There are more of them out there than I have ever though possible so it rattles me.

I’m looking forward to sitting in the back of the car with Nevin, reading him books, coloring with the brand new colored pencils I bought him yesterday, watching “Maurice Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are” on the little portable DVD player, counting the cars, counting the cows in the fields by the highway, and wallowing as I always do in his nearness. Other than that, Megs and I will get us there and get us there safely.

Three weeks away from here will be so pleasant. I’m ready for some change.

While I am prolific at maintaining The List on a daily basis, crossing off my pathetically detailed chores with flair and gusto, I am not in the same league as Fred when it comes to packing for vacation. Over the years, as I have tried to emulate his gift for packing suitcases, I have always procrastinated actually doing it until 11:15 p.m. the night before we leave.

It drives Fred crazy.

There I am, so predictable year after year after year, crossing back and forth in front of the TV - dresser to closet to suitcase and back again - while he lays on the bed, trying in vain to watch Letterman, Leno or Dateline; but I pack the suitcase quickly and efficiently, knowing that someone somewhere will have an iron. They always do. Then - voila! - I’m done.

Fred, on the other hand, irons every last piece of goods going into those babies, and he packs them military style without wrinkles. I’m impressed by it all, and I am also duly impressed by fact that it’s Monday night, we don’t leave for vacation until Thursday, and Fred is dressed and covered, as they say in the military. You gotta love him.

Meanwhile, Nevin has been practicing dragging his small Spiderman suitcase on its little clickety wheels, up and down our hall.

I definitely see Fred in Nevin. Oh, yes.