If Noah Could Do It

The countdown clock now stands at 39 days until I leave for Knoxville. Noah lasted for 40 days and nights on an ark full of smelly animals and no WiFi. Surely I can stand 39 more days living in a tin can with very limited access to cable television.

Let me paint a picture of life with my parents. My tin box contains a very comfortable bed, a refrigerator/freezer, a working microwave, and access to Diet Pepsi purchased on sale. While there are three televisions in the box, none of them actually show any television programming or have the ability to play DVDs. As a result, I have brought in my own TV, upon which I can watch my four seasons of The West Wing, five seasons of The Good Wife, and seven seasons of Grey's Anatomy, as well as several fine feature films. 

That's the good part. Then there's the other part--the overwhelming, consuming, and nearly omnipresent heat. No, not heat. That's not nearly descriptive enough. The fiery furnaces of hell can take lessons from that box.

To be sure, there is an air conditioner, and, when it's working, it can create a comfortable climate.  Sadly, the wiring that supplies electricity to the box stems from the main house, which still seems to bear the technology of its initial construction in 1940. Things go haywire when the box's air conditioner is used, when a blow dryer is used, when the house air conditioner is used, and on and on and on. So, I am effectively limited to an overhead fan in the bedroom. But that's OK. About 1 a.m., the overhead fan can bring in cool air and bring the temp down to the low 80s. Accustomed to air conditioned coolness since I moved out of the ancestral home in 1983, this new climate is taking its toll. As a result of late nights awaiting a drop in temperature, I've been sleepy for over a week now. 

I am often welcomed into the big house, which can be pleasant when my mom makes something to eat. But damn I miss real television. In this house, 90 percent of TV viewing is limited to one show and only one show. The "ballgame."

My parents are inveterate fans of the San Francisco Giants. For them, this manifests as a desire to watch pre-game, game, and post-game coverage of each and every contest in which their team engages. This need for constant coverage means that any other television show, whether enjoyed like Jeopardy or hated like The Astronauts Wives Club, takes a back seat. 

I'm sorry I cannot record the dialogue that passes between my parents as they enjoy the interminable ball games. My dad constantly chides and scolds the players who do not execute well--if McGhehee hits into one more double play, I believe swear words he learned in the Navy may issue forth from my pater. My mother plays the role of Eeyore:  "he'll never get a hit," "they're going to lose the lead," "Buster Posey is too slow," "this guy can't pitch," "McGehee is going to hit into a double play" (OK, that last usually comes to pass).  

Ready for the game

I have tried to get into the spirit of ball game watching, fortifying myself with Anchor Steam's fabulous California Lager and with peanuts that have the Giants' logo on them. But it is never enough. Baseball on television is boring. It's just boring. Boring. 

But the days are going by, and I often escape to the girls' cottages or Reiner's pool. At the parentals' abode I have books to read and DVDs to watch, beer to drink and peanuts to eat. And, in the distance, the bright orange of UTK beckons. Only 39 more days....

I Know What Hell Is

With all due respect to General William Tecumseh Sherman, war is NOT hell. Moving is hell. It's hell on wheels. It's hell on ice. It's plain everyday hell.

Since I accepted the offer from the University of Tennessee, I've been thinking endlessly of all that had to be done. Packing, arranging for a place in Knoxville, checking out the various options for toting my belongings across the country, etc. 

But that's not all. Because not only am I moving but Maddie and Randi are moving as well, into the W Street cottage next door to Heidi and Danny. And the amount of work needed on those cottages boggles the mind. 

All this is happening at once. To say I have been, and continue to be, overwhelmed, is quite the understatement. Roll that in your cigar and smoke it, General Sherman. 

As I write today, after three continuous weeks of work, Maddie and Randi (hereafter referred to as Mandi, in the grand tradition of Brangelina and Shamy) are now living in their cottage with three cats and our wonderful Penny, whose custody they share with Heidi and Danny (hereafter referred to as Dandi).  Dandi have three cats of their own, which means that the property Reiner meant to keep pet free is now home to six cats and a dog.  Can't win 'em all, Reiner.

We have started the arduous process of painting the interiors of the cottages, having finished the bedrooms in Mandi's cottage and the bathroom in Dandi's.  Reiner "Spackle Boy" Herbon purchased all the supplies we could ever dream of and even helped out some; his insistance on the use of spackle as the remedy for all structural and cosmetic blemishes in the cottages earned him his nickname.  In the interest of full disclosure, I will confess that the rest of us had nicknames as well:  Heidi "Crazy Cat Lady" Herbon; Maddie "Tape Girl" Herbon; Lorraine Dias "Paint Hair" Herbon; and Randi "Muscles" Owens.

In between days spent painting have been days spent packing.  I honestly believed that when the girls and I moved to the Sumerlin Ranch ten years ago that we had drastically downsized.  Apparently, we did not--and we added lots more stuff during our residency at the little house in Elk Grove.  Between the cottages and the house, we needed eight trips to the dump as well as donating mountains of stuff to Goodwill and other charities.

How to re-energize after a tough day

Another way to unwind 

"Draw me like one of your French girls, Jack." 

As I expect to be gone at least five years, I needed a storage place to house things I will not take to Knoxville.  This, sadly, includes my 1910 upright player piano.  As though it had a mind of its own, that blessed instrument stubbornly refused to be moved. While it obstensively has four wheels on its legs, you'd never know it by the way it tried to cling to each surface it passed over.  It had a wild ride in a moving truck to the storage place--the wildness may have been my fault.  While  I think I drove the truck exceedingly well, neither Maddie nor Heidi would ride with me after the initial drive.  Thank goodness for Randi.  And, now that the piano is neatly tucked away in its temporary home, I can paraphrase Scarlett O'Hara by saying, "As God is my witness, I'll hire movers for the piano next time."

With all the big stuff out of the house, yesterday it was time to move into the storage unit that will be my home for the next six weeks.  After being on my own for over thirty years, I'm back home with the parentals. But this time I am living in a tin box (O.K., well, their motorhome) in the driveway between my childhood home and my parents' "crap house."  One day I think I'll write extensively about the crap house, but lets just suffice to say that it is the small house next door to my parents which they purchased because they have too much crap for their own two-story, four-bedroom house.

The first night in the tin can didn't go too badly, although I couldn't figure out how to get the cool air outside to come inside until well after midnight.  I'll be snug as a bug, though, once I get everything figured out.

Much remains to be done, including more painting on the cottages, clean-up and sale of the Sumerlin Ranch, and, eventually, the cross-country trip to my new digs, my new job, my new academic challenge, my new life. I wonder if I should take up drinking?