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Tuesday, October 26, 2021



A Situation

Too few truck drivers—80,000 too few means that my stuff is elsewhere in America. Movers aren't moving. "Goods" they call my pile. Apt.

Clothes, bowls, bone china coffee mugs I've had in my cabinets, in my hands, for thirty years, Sheffield stainless flatware my former husband and I bought in England when we lived in England, the set of Poole pottery chosen during a day trip to splendid Poole, towels, waste bins, paper clips, my mother's china cabinet, my brother's bookcases, my French writing desk, my oxygen concentrator, couch, armchair, recliner/bed, the coffee table my brother painted then used découpage to cover with Van Gogh prints from an art book sacrificed to the project, but worth it, supplies of toilet paper and paper towels, paper clips, bandaids, art made by my father and two of my three brothers, all the books I couldn't give away before I left the assisted living facility and the photo albums I needed to keep. I see I mentioned paper clips twice. Well, I really need some right now.

So many of us are waiting and waiting. At the ports, all the big ports, (meant to be busy) ships loaded with containers containing almost everything wait for stevedores to unload and drivers who'll drive. Helpless shopkeepers wait with empty shelves and shoppers lower expectations. We whine in solidarity, don't we?

The kindness of neighbors (sorry, Tennessee Williams) saves my brother and I. We have borrowed beds, a table with four chairs and a folding chair for the deck out back. The excellent pots, pans, and knives my brother successfully shipped from Philadelphia mean we can cook. Well, he can cook.

Ah, well. I make my morning phone calls to the broker and the trucking company and on rare occasions a human responds with a non-answer. In all the years I've been knocking around I have at least learned about letting go of things once I've done what I can. (I've called Legal Aid and I may call the West Palm Beach Sheriff.) I realize I wouldn't have a mess like this if I hadn't been so trusting, naive, flattered when I booked the move. Flattered? Yes, because the charming agent (two weeks later, when I complained, he became insulting) read some of my writing, stuff he found online, back to me over the phone and he soon convinced me that theirs was the outfit to choose over all others. Silly Nonnie.

Must needs let it go, until tomorrow morning's phone call and text time, eh? 


Tuesday, October 19, 2021