Moving experience

When my wife and I were first married, we moved every year. At last count we have occupied 14 different domiciles in our 29 years of marriage.
We got pretty good at it. Packing, hauling and arranging became sort of second nature to us. Lately we haven’t had too much of it, though, except for moving our sons around to one place or another.
Moving our business, Herald Publishing, was an endeavor of another sort, however. Fortunately, we had some good help with all the things we needed to accomplish, and there weren’t nearly as many bumps in the road as there could have been.
Large thanks go out to our sons, Chris and Nathaniel, who were indispensable both for their energy and knowledge in such things as computer networking and telephone systems.
Also a kind word is due to Rex Long for his talent and industry in making necessary modifications to our new location. It’s good to have skillful friends.
David Hardke was both helpful and tolerant with all the financial arrangements. Who says bankers are mean, heartless guys?
The weak link in the chain, I must admit, gentle readers, was your humble correspondent. Every now and then I get reminded graphically that I’m no spring chicken. Last week, I had basketball games to cover on back to back nights in Augusta and McCrory. Under normal circumstances, this would have been a drain on my dwindling resources, but with the move going on simultaneously, it darn near killed me.
Trying to keep my worn out old carcus in tune with high school basketball bleachers has proven to be more of a challenge than I’m up for. After two consecutive nights on them, my lower extremities were crying for help.
Most of the heavy lifting and hauling took place last weekend, and I had some younger muscles there to shoulder some of the burden. Trouble was, by that time, I was pretty much over the hill, exertion-wise, and about as useful as a screen door in a submarine.
I’m sure the time will come when I’ll look back at it and laugh, (like, maybe, when my memory has evaporated to the point that I can’t find the door to my house anymore), but I was deeply offended by my body’s refusal to respond to all the demands made upon it on this occasion.
My brain still thinks I’m a healthy and vibrant 21-year-old, but my body knows different. What the h-e-double hockey sticks does my brain know about it anyway. My brain is the evil character that has gotten me into most of the trouble I’ve had in my life. If I’d known what was good for me, I’d have quit listening to my brain years ago. For one thing, the silly critter has no sense of self-preservation. My body, on the other hand, has a deep seated desire to remain above the sod and is willing to do whatever is necessary to accomplish this goal.
There’s an important life lesson in there somewhere, but I’m still to tired to figure out what it is.