Moving Day

Moving day was yesterday, April 3rd, 2008. Yes, stating the year was absolutely necessary*. We survived the so long-awaited event and moved forward. But it was exhausting for everyone.
Over the years, we have moved many times – from packing everything we own into the car, to sorting out our major international moves. Moving day is always stressful, and having a lot of support doesn’t necessarily make it easier. We were officially repatriated from Costa Rica to New Orleans (retirement) shortly after Hurricane Katrina, and the only workers the moving company could find to help us were two sickly looking college kids and an old man with a limp. We were stronger than any of them and ended up helping to physically move in all the antiques and other furniture.
Our idea was to move all the valuable things to New Orleans and leave the older, less expensive stuff in storage in Costa Rica for the house at El Tigre. However, that’s still a lot of stuff that we’ve collected over the years, and the boxes filled up the container moving truck. No problem! The movers only had to drive the truck from their very own storage warehouse to our house out at El Tigre. A simple, local move – a piece of cake.
The moving company realized that they would not be able to get their container-sized moving truck up the mountain to Finca El Tigre, so they organized pick-up trucks to go back and forth between the container truck, which they parked at U.Paz, and El Tigre. However, those that arrived were definitely not All Terrain Vehicles, nor even 4x4s, so, of course, they couldn’t make it up the hill from the University for Peace. So now the moving guys go back to Ciudad Colon to look for any 4x4 pick-up truck they can find to do the move. There they are, unknown workers wearing company t-shirts, talking it up with the locals in sleepy Ciudad Colon. 4x4 pick-ups urgently needed! They tried everything to bribe any 4x4 truck driver just happening down the road. And, of course, most drivers obliged for the right price. So, before we knew it, our regular, local truck drivers started showing up with their trucks piled high with our stuff. At one point, our builders’ delivery truck showed up with a new, hand-made back door, fresh out of the carpenter’s workshop across town. However, since he just happened to be driving past the moving truck, heading straight for El Tigre, the movers commandeered his nice big 4x4 truck and piled it high with boxes. The driver looked extremely cross, as the moving guys at this end unpacked his truck. I suggested to Janet that perhaps we should give him a tip for his trouble, but she just jutted out her chin and said, “Poof! He didn’t lift a finger except to drive his truck as he always does. Life is such as it is!”
And the day wore on; the truck drivers bickering, the moving guys always thirsty, Janet barking out orders to everyone, “…up to the library... to the vestidor… watch out there… the water glasses are over there…”. And I’m everywhere, checking lists and managing the unpacking. Janet and Marcia had been prepped with lists and instructions, and performed splendidly as the boxes came through into the house. And we soon found ourselves in a routine - from checking off each box as it came off the truck - Gerald’s job - to the rest of us working with the un-packers to settle the contents into the house.
Now, make no mistake about it, stress definitely causes and/or exacerbates pain. That blasted snake gun I tried out a few days ago kicked like a mule and hurt my shoulder! For some reason, I never really noticed the ache until later in the week – on moving day. And by mid-afternoon, I could barely take the pain and had to sit down for a few minutes. I made the mistake of sitting down on the bench next to Gerald, who was busy checking in boxes - the moving guys queuing up in front of him to get checked off. Gerald would not be hurried.
And then I stupidly complained to him again that my shoulder still hurt. At that point, Gerald flashed his eyes at me - “You’re starting to worry me! Are you really hurt or is it just muscle ache?”
Gerald is used to my frequent scrapes and bruises and has little sympathy for me. I had to fess up. It was a mere muscle ache.
“Then shut up and deal with it”, he said irritably, and turned back to the inventory list and the queue.
It was time for a remedy!
I asked Janet what was the strongest analgesic in the house. She responded, Naproxen, 220mg. It would do nicely for me. So I asked for the bottle and swallowed two tablets, and next thing I know, everybody is passing around the bottle of Naproxen. Seems everybody had a headache or something aching somewhere. It wasn’t the physical work - it was the stress of moving 248 boxes from a large container, via a series of strange pick-up trucks/drivers, into the house.
Gerald, of course, would have none of it! Nothing seems to bother him physically, and if it does, he just bears up and deals with it - the proverbial English stiff upper lip - just shoulder your burden and carry on, lad. As to taking remedies, Gerald says: “I (used to) sell drugs, I don’t take them.”
Well, I used to sell drugs too but I’m no martyr. Still, I’ve now observed how stress amplifies pain. This morning, we all woke up feeling fine as usual, so we agreed that the moving day pain was mostly stress related, which, in our case, provoked old aches and pains.
On the bright side, it started raining – a major torrential rain – just minutes after the last truck pulled away. Amazingly, everything had made it safely inside.
It’s now official. It’s raining again at El Tigre. Raining in the Forest…a rain forest…mornings fresh and cool…in silence, sounds of chirping, twittering, chattering, hooting – nature’s symphony – Opus April 4th, 2008. The new leaves budding out…forest canopy now with fresh green texture…lacy guanacastes…earthy scents…cool mist rising, sun overhead…
I am late for breakfast again.
Gerald is busy making departure plans for New Orleans.

*Some people like to joke and equate me with the Widow Winchester, who might die if she ever finished her house construction. My brother once told me that some people talk and other people are talked about, and that I would always be one of those people that other people like to talk about - just a bit too far off the mainstream grid to stay under the radar. “Get used to it”, he said. That was back when I was 12 years old…