Experience may be overrated
The final half of August was so jam-packed with activities I had to take a week's vacation just to get all of them accomplished. The time was spent doing some "first-time" things and some "never-again" things.
First-time activities included moving Daughter #1 to Manhattan for the school year. For the past few months folks have been telling me what an emotional experience it is to move a child to college!
On what had to be the hottest day of the year, we loaded up two pickups and a car and headed off for Manhattan — along with thousands of other college students and their moving crews.
Upon arriving in town we bypassed the bumper-to-bumper traffic on the west side of Manhattan and were patting ourselves on the back for finding a quicker way to the residence halls. That feeling of good fortune didn't last long.
As we got near the dorms, we joined hundreds of cars in the parking lot, all looking for the next empty slot. Like buzzards circling road kill, we drove with a single-minded purpose — a parking space close to the building.
Having conquered the parking problem, Daughter #1 and I headed to the hall to get checked in. I was holding on to my sense of humor, still reveling in the "experience" of the whole process of moving a kid to college.
That slipped a notch when we discovered Jamie was on the ninth floor. The lines for the overloaded elevators snaked across the lobby and I was ready to talk about commuting from Marion when Jamie skipped through a door marked "Stairs" and headed off in an upward direction.
By the time we reached the ninth floor we were both red-faced and I was mumbling something about sliding down the banister or climbing out the window and rappelling down the side of the building for the return trip.
We caught our breath, checked out the phone booth-sized room, and headed back down to tell our volunteers the wonderful news about crowded elevators and nine flights of stairs.
While Dad kept an eye on a pickup-load of bedding, the rest of us grabbed stacks of boxes and bags for the return trip. I had the genius idea of using a three-wheeled office chair as a cart and loaded it up with a couple of boxes. About half-way down the parking lot (yes, down), my brilliant idea about got away from me. Being in the newspaper business, I was mentally writing the headline: "Woman wounded rescuing renegade chair." Needless to say, I stopped to reposition the load, then forged ahead.
As luck would have it, the lines for elevators had shortened and we only waited about 10 minutes for our turn. This was not a large elevator. Maybe it was the heat, but stuffing a dozen big boxes, an unruly chair, five sweaty adults, and an operator in for a slow ride to the ninth floor had me wishing we'd taken the stairs.
We dumped the boxes and headed back down for the next phase of our carefully orchestrated moving plan: bringing up the loft.
Loft beds appear to be necessary dorm-room furniture — at least at Moore Hall. Each hallway was stacked with mattresses and under-bed platforms. The sound of hammers, drills, and a few expletives echoed down the hall as lofts were assembled, moved, disassembled, and moved again. After a few adjustments and minor "discussion," Jamie's loft went up without incident.
With one last load of stuff, we waited in line for the elevator. I watched the various moving procedures. Some, like us, had most things boxed up and were trying for an orderly, professional moving experience. Others had bypassed the boxes and were carrying armloads of clothing, pushing TV stands with TVs teetering on carts topped with microwaves and computer monitors, and dragging trash bags of hangers, towels, CDs, and stereo equipment.
After seeing that, I was thinking about the importance of good organizational skills, keeping a good sense of humor, and the value of "experiencing" life, when I heard someone say, "Just think, in nine months we'll be moving out!"
Ughhhh!
— DONNA BERNHARDT
