I hadn’t realized until this weekend how I feel about moving trucks. Our next-door neighbors sold their house and the new neighbors are moving in. So for two days moving trucks have been parked on our street and men have been loading boxes onto hand carts and pushing them down the truck ramp, along the sidewalk and through the front door.
This morning I was outside unloading the groceries when the rumble of a tractor trailer cab disrupted the quiet of our street. The movers had arrived to continue unloading the trailer. And that’s when I realized moving trucks make me nostalgic. And a little…possessive as if moving trucks are our thing, for only us to utilize in the transportation of all our worldly goods.
Moving is stressful, especially so when pregnant, when pregnant with a toddler underfoot, when pregnant with a toddler and preschooler in tow and with husband already ensconced in temporary housing in our new city. But moving is also exciting, a chance to reinvent ourselves, meet new people, see new things, explore new areas…
So I will continue to spy on the neighbors and their moving men and I will continue to imagine the chaos within the neighbor’s house as boxes are unpacked and used packing supplies are discarded. I will not, however, ask to walk into the back of the truck and hang out for old times’ sake. Even if it is tempting.
Andrea Miles 
Wow. I imagine being pregnant with a toddler would make you waaaaay overdue, no?
I enjoyed this read very much, share some of the sentiments, though I’m happy to know (yes, know) my moving days are over. I’m living in paradise.
After reading your last post, here’s one of many favorite Andrea ‘peccadillos’ this is related to this post:
When we moved here to Alabama, the movers spent AN ENTIRE WEEK with Andrea and the kids meticulously packing and loading all of our stuff in PA to make the trip to AL, where I was already working and living in a temporary apartment.
My wonderful and admittedly non-conversationalist wife was with these movers in our home in PA for likely 8 or more hours a day, and presumably making conversation – even if it isn’t her favorite thing.
Here was the conversation that transpired in the first 3 minutes of the movers arriving here in Birmingham for the first time after I introduced myself:
ME: “Hi, sure am glad to finally see you you guys.”
MOVER: “Blah. blah, blah… So where are you all from originally?”
ME: “Actually, my wife and I both are from the same really small town on the Eastern Shore of MD called Pocomoke.”
MOVER: “Really?! That’s so weird. My brother-in-law is from Pocomoke”
ME: “Well if he’s anywhere near my age, the odds are pretty high I know the guy.”
MOVER” “His name is ****** *******. Know him?”
ME: “Know him? He’s been one of my best friends since the 3rd grade. He was in our wedding, and his wife works with my mother – who basically fixed him up with his wife – your sister. Really….. how did Andrea not uncover this when she was with you all of last week?!”
I’ve loved the adventure of all of our moves too! If I hadn’t married a free spirit, I’d probably never have had the courage to make all these moves, and it gave me the chance to test what I’ve always believed: home is not a place, it is who is on the inside of your front door.
You keep writing. I’ll keep doing all the talking dear.
G
We didn’t move when I was a child so I can only imagine the trauma a child would feel. But once I turned 18, I moved a few times. I didn’t understand I could just visit a place; I had to move there instead! And then when I got married, we’ve moved about every year and a half, although we’ve been here in AL about 2 1/2 years! Thanks for commenting, Beverly. I appreciate it!
Now that would be a dream! Living next door to each other! I’m having heart palpitations just imagining it, my dear friend!
Wouldn’t you be shocked if the Tolbert family hopped out of that moving truck!! G would have a coronary but I would be a happy camper living next to you! Oh, I wish, I wish, I wish…
I get the nostalgic feeling too, although when as a child we moved from Wisconsin to Pennsylvania, it was more traumatic than fun.
It’s like the moving trucks from a bridge, linking the old life, with its surroundings, with the new one. The yard may be different, the bathroom(s) in a different place, but here’s the old couch with that tear from when we were doing an art project and accidentally cut into it, the coffee table with the teeth marks on the corner that Mom always said were mine.