A MOVING EXPERIENCE
by sonya hammond
In an example of the terrific timing for which I am well-known, I recently sold my yard just prior to the season when its 15 trees were scheduled to celebrate the annual ceremony in which they traditionally bury me in several tons of leaves.
My euphoria over this fortuitous advance planning faded almost immediately, however, when it dawned on me that the house attached to the yard was part of the deal.
It was not that I had suddenly recalled some previously unrecognized personal attachment to the house, which had somehow grown too large for me. It was the belated realization that once a house is sold, its contents must be moved elsewhere, usually to another residence which the seller is expected to buy, through an extremely complicated series of precariously-timed moves various real estate agents will make every effort to thwart, at the exact moment the sale of the previous residence is completed.
Ordinarily the symptoms brought on by over-exposure to cardboard cartons and strapping tape would be part of a gradual process. This is due to the scientific procedure which takes over the lives of all buyers and sellers, unfolding at the approximate pace of a performance of Lohengrin with less music but more paperwork. This activity for some reason is known as Escrow.
In my case, however, an unprecedented demand on the part of my buyers made it mandatory that the Escrow thing be completed within 28 days, approximately the amount of time needed for me to clean my garage or have a coronary, allowing no slack for packing, finding another house in which my cat would consent to live, or holding a garage sale to get rid of all the stuff that unknown persons had purchased and stored in my closets without my consent.
With the assistance of friends who were actually seen compiling lists of the return favors they would expect to receive over the next 10 years, a new house was eventually chosen with tentative cat approval, and local charities became the confused recipients of my closet overflow. Two days before the 28 days were up, this move was on the verge of accomplishment.
There was, however, a bug in the ointment.
At this point I must go on record regarding the size
and appearance of the insect in question. It has not, as some insensitive observers have
suggested, grown significantly during ensuing accounts of the evening's events. This was a
large black spider of considerable hairiness, crawling on my ceiling on a path leading
directly over my bed.
No woman in her right mind would blame me for my reaction to this invasion, although perhaps with the benefit of hindsight, and considering the subsequent pain factor of 50 on a scale of 1-10, there may be some question about my methods.
Nevertheless, at the time it made perfect sense to grab a rolled-up newspaper and climb up on a fragile antique chair to achieve my goal. I can hardly be blamed that the two front legs of the chair inconsiderately chose that moment to break.
Unless you have spent 20 minutes sliding on your ass to get to a telephone, unless you have then bumped down a flight of stairs on this same, increasingly painful, ass to get to the front door to let in the incredibly patient and kind man you have called for help, and unless you have then spent a half hour attempting to slide, hop and occasionally scream your way down another flight of stairs into his car to make the trip to the emergency room while your knee swells to the size of a honeydew melon, you have no to right to point out that if I had had any sense I would have left the damned spider for disposal by the buyers of my house since in the end they apparently had to cope with him anyhow.
I will stipulate all of this.
And to those friends who still insist that I deliberately went through this in order to avoid helping with the final move to my new house, I snarl somewhat petulantly, 'you've got to be kidding'.
As the doctor in the emergency room pointed out after informing me that I had broken my kneecap, 'accidents happen'. I certainly can't argue with that.
Now if somebody will please explain Escrow to me, life will be complete.
© sonya hammond, 1996