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Arcata is about 300 miles north of Berkeley, and my daughter Alisha and her husband Brian live there. Suzanne wanted a job with a pension, and she landed one here as mail carrier. It was petty sudden, in a way. Sort of. She applied months and months ago to several towns around here. We drove up here for interviews several times. It’s a 6 hour drive, and she would have a 10 or 20 minute interview. We’d visit Alisha and drive back to the Bay area the next day.
About the fifth or sixth time that we did that she got hired, and had to start work in two weeks. So we drove home again and she started packing. The theory was that she would start packing stuff from the apartment. While she did that I came back up here and spent every day searching for a place to live.
Now, this is a college town. It was the start of the semester, and when an apartment was advertised to be shown there would be 20-30 people show up to look at it. We’d all cruise through the tiny rooms eyeing each other. People kept saying, “Oh, landlords would rather have a mature couple than students. You’ll be a shoo in.” In those 2 weeks I scrutinized the ads every morning, drove by houses and apartments every afternoon, applied through agencies, signed up for early notification, put in applications and credit reports and found nothing.
I went back to Berkeley totally disappointed. Not surprisingly, she’d not really packed much up. Certainly all that she was going to need, but she was also finishing out her old job and working 50 hours a week. I wasn’t surprised. It was what I had expected. We had a couple of days there, then packed the car full of Suzanne’s stuff and drove back up. She stayed at Alisha and Brian’s house, planning to start a new job (with a 60 day trial period) and look for a place to live. Yea, right. I knew better but didn’t try to dissuade her. I drove back to Berkeley and started packing. I had 2 weeks to get out of the apartment.
That was fun. NOT!! You know, I really miss Suzanne when we are not together. If we take separate vacations 2 weeks is the limit of comfort, 3 weeks the limit of tolerance, and everything after that is… well, at the risk of sounding dependant, after 3 weeks it is depressing. And we’d been apart for 2 weeks now. And I had to pack the whole damn apartment alone.
And suddenly I could no longer avoid it—I was moving away from the area I’d lived in for 35 years. Here my children were born, educated and left home. Here were all my friends. I knew where to find anything I wanted. The store keepers knew me and chatted, the restaurant workers knew my favorite dishes, my friends lived here, my two sons and my grandson lived here, my routine was here. My life was here.
And I was going. Leaving. Abandoning it all. Things took on a preternatural glow. Every time I did anything I thought, “This is probably the last time I’ll do this.” Everything was vivid. I went to the restaurant where they serve my favorite twice cooked Pork—the place my family calls the “TCP restaurant.” The food tasted SO good that I ate it so slowly it was way cold before I was done.
I tried to visit my friends, as if for the last time. It was strange to suddenly see everyone I knew sifted out into Must See and Try to see and See If You Can. Into good friends, friends and acquaintances. There was no doubt about seeing my Best Friends. I spent time with Tom and Don, no doubt about its value, no doubt between us about doing it, squeezing every last minute out of the pleasure of their presence. Some folks couldn’t find the time… wow, a judgment imposed itself on me and their status dropped a notch for me. It was very strange.
At one point I thought, “This must be like what it is to be told I’m going to die soon.” Each act vivid, each moment precious, everything sharp and etched in deep.
Noah, my older son and father of my grandson Elliot, told me he was going to move to Sacramento and open up his own flower shop. He’d managed to get the financing and he and his family were departing. Wow, one of the BIG reasons for me to stay as lifted. I felt a little more free. One less thing to hold me here. I spent as much time as possible with Jason, my younger son. My kid. They are all my kids, but you know, he’s the “little one.” Don’t we always worry most about this one? He was signing up for college, looking forward to it after several years of work. “I want to do something to better myself,” he told me. “I’m different now.” Wow! And wisdom: “You’ve spent all this time with us, now it’s Alisha’s turn.” Damn, I’d not thought of that I nearly wept. And in truth, I WAS looking forward to spending some more face time with my daughter. So in truth, my sons helped me cut loose. I shed the agony of leaving them. Now I was just sad.
And in the daytime, I packed. And packed. And packed. Jeez, it’s a 1 BR apartment how much stuff can we have? I dared not throw anything out of Suzanne’s. Five boxes of crafts stuff. Surely he will want this bundle of ratty leather strips! I’m a junk rat. EVERYTHING is valuable. Yep, that box of high school memorabilia. Yea, my Dad’s navy papers. My great grandpa’s Civil War army papers… A bag of tweaks I collected when I was a tweaker. Oh, look, the first book I ever made!
And of course, all the Issaries stuff—records, some inventory, boxes and boxes of notes and unfinished manuscripts and stories never published… And yea, I am sure that these old floppy discs with drafts of RQI should be kept…
Getting enough boxes is often a problem when moving. I just ordered them—my friend Tom was astonished that I actually ordered boxes to put stuff into. Though he admitted there is good sense in having everything one size. I needed a couple weird sizes to hold Suzanne’s bo and bows. Where would I get skinny six-foot long boxes? There they are on the street! Then I ran out of boxes! I knew there was a huge pile behind High Tech Burritos. I put off pulling them right away because, well, I have to have a dinner with my good friend Sam and the dumpster is always full. Of course, next day it is empty! Ah, I find them anyway.
How the hell do you pack bowls? What do I keep from the kitchen? A half jar of pickle relish? What do I do with the stuff I’m not keeping? Will homeless people want a box of spices? Well, there is always put out. Just put it in a box on the sidewalk and see if people take it. Wow, they take anything!
It’s a damn good thing we never got any furniture!
And then, even two days early, it was all there in stacks of boxes. I rented a truck. Jason came by to help. His friends, who had all said they would help, weren’t available. No surprise there. I went to where the Latinos stand around and wait for work.
Necessito tres hombres mas fuerte para movar muchas cajas.
Nos, senor.
Si? Quantos?
Quince dólares por hora, sir.
Fifteen dollars!
I pulled over to the curb.
Demasiado! Diez.
They talk among themselves.
OK, Ten, they agree.
We go to the apartment. The truck is there, Jason is there, a mountain of boxes holding three and a half decades of my life are there. “J, you instruct at the truck end, I’ll take upstairs.”
These three guys start to work. I had trouble moving a box at a time. They pick up three at a time, sometimes four, and start the infinite number of trips down with the stuff to the truck, back up for more.
“Slow these guys down,” says Jason, “They’re humping.” I do.
Sentarse! Toman agua! I hand out bottled water and everyone sits down to drink. They are all drenched in sweat. Qieren una manzana? Two say yes, one no. The last guy talks to his girlfriend on his cell phone.
Back to work. I am packing the last stuff. They are carrying everything downstairs to the truck where Jason is arranging it into a compact load. Hours pass. Another break. Water, apples. These guys are from Guatemala. They don’t want to talk about the war. Did you know each other before you got here? Somos paisanos, says one, and they all smile, nodding.
More work. I leave a batch of stuff on the sidewalk. Put out.
We’re done. The apartment is empty. I talk to the Guatemalianos. In my bad Spanish I tell them they agreed to $10/hr., but they are hard workers and I am paying them $15/hr, si es bien contigo. One guy recognizes an ironic statement, the others a bit bemused. But they all agree. I hand out cash, they are happy. I ask them where they would like a ride to. I’ll take them back to Oakland if they want. No, nearest bus stop is fine. They are all smiling while waiting for the bus. I go back and Jason and I clean up the apartment. Sweep. Mop. Scrub and scour. At the end of the day I turn in the keys, a day early!! J drives my car to Don’s, me the truck. I leave the truck, drop J off, have a final dinner with my friends Don and Anna, and sleep on the floor and get up the next day before they are awake. I get Jason, drop the car keys in Don’s mailbox, and we leave in a pokey truck that will need WAY more than 6 hours to reach Arcata. Road trip with my son!
Good by Berkeley.
We drove all day and talked about Jason’s school and life in general. Great trip, driving a pokey truck with my son. And the drive is gorgeous, one you get past Santa Rosa. Through the wine country, then through the hills and then through the redwoods, and at last to the city of Eureka, ten more miles, Arcata!
The next day Brian, Alisha and Jason unloaded the truck into a rented storage space. Suzanne got home after work and we all spent some quality family time together, me, my wife, two of my children and one in-law. Good time. Had dinner with some of Alisha’s friends in Tomo, a Japanese restaurant of very high quality.
Next morning, back into the truck and another 6 hours south this time, and drop off the truck. Spent the night as Jason’s apartment. In the AM I recovered my car and drove to Sacrament to visit Noah and Kathy and Elliot. This was the first time I saw Noah’s new flower shop. He and Kathy work there, seven days a week, eight or more hours a day. I took Elliot to the zoo and we had a great time. In SF we used to go to the zoo a lot together. Walk around and do the animal quiz, then spend several hours at the playground. We looked and looked for a Chinese restaurant. There’s gotta be some in Sacramento, but Noah’s as new there as I am in Arcata and we ended up eating Mexican food. Next day, back into the car for another 6 hour drive, solo this time. I decide, Hey, I’m starting to like this drive. Note to everyone who goes that way: Willits is half way and has the cheapest gas on the whole journey.
And then I was in Arcata to stay.
Restful time? Not a chance. Still had to find a place to live, and it was the same as before. No, it was worse. A couple of time the agents told us we had the place, and when I went to sign the papers they told me they’d rented it to someone else. What the F!? Brian told me that the university had doubled the freshman class this year and precipitated a housing crisis, and the university was giving special deals—kickbacks—to the agencies who got houses for students. Wow, maybe having the uni here wasn’t an advantage. This went on for weeks. I was disappointed when I had returned to Berkeley weeks earlier. Now I was in despair.