Movin’ on up … to the west side!

Fule for Thought

 

By the time you read this, my family and I will have moved. Now, some of you may be sad, some may be surprised, and some may even be planning a celebration (I’ve already heard rumours of a “block party” in the Cambridge area)!  

I actually told a few Cambridge neighbours that their property values may go up, now that the Fules are leaving (sorry about your luck, Strathmore Lakes)!  

I have helped people move, and have gratefully been helped, on many moves. In 1990, for example, we sold one house, moved into a basement rental suite, moved some stuff to Canmore and back for a summer job, bought, and moved to a mobile home (thanks, Mr Lein!). Finally by December, we finished at a split level house (I have come to know that I may have “burned some bridges” here). In fact, Deb bought the last home at a wine and cheese party! She only called me over when the deal was sealed, and I had to sign something! 

Now, because of all these moves, I took a lot of “good natured” ribbing from my teacher pals. Some would say that my Hungarian “gypsy” background was at work. Sure, my dad’s family were Hungarian, but it doesn’t mean we’re gypsies … “but I don’t even know a gypsy”! 

Others meanly said it was because “Hungary’s been invaded so often, your people are always on the run” (oh yes, comrade … just park your Russian T-34 tank on my vegetable garden!)  

Just because you may have moved five times in a span of six months … why do they have to judge? Oh wait, yeah … they do get to judge, because they’d been moving me all those times!

When we moved furniture and things to our latest house, I never thought we’d be there for 16 years. The problem was, we moved a lot of big, heavy things in to the basement before it was fully finished. When the basement was done, it was impossible to move out the large hide-a-bed!

My friend Brad and I tried every which way to turn, lift, and move it out. We even managed to almost get it up from the basement, but we dragged the hide-a-bed’s “feet” across the newly painted walls, scarring them in the process!

So … we decided: “enough was enough” (I quietly hated this hide-a-bed anyway, so the decision was easy)! 

My pal Brad and I grabbed a sledgehammer and axe, and began wailing away at this “beast” of a couch! There were couch bits, foam, metal, and shrapnel flying everywhere … “Oh, the humanity” (Hindenberg reference)!  

At times I heard Deb call, “is everything alright down there?”  

Oh, everything’s alright … we’re just making some furniture adjustments! We carried up the biggest pieces first, and on the third trip, Debbie asked, “what are those things you’re bringing up?”  

I answered: “we had to take apart the hide-a-bed, we’ve numbered the pieces, and we’re bringing them up! In fact, here’s Part D, that matches up with Part C, that Brad brought up before!”

Debbie, being as smart as she is, didn’t believe a word, and just shook her head. This was one hide-a-bed that would never have attitude again! It had to go, and we murdered it!

On one of my other friend’s moves, I failed miserably! It was a bitterly cold January morning, and my friend’s stuff had been in a trailer all night … in -30 degree temperature. Did I say all night? 

Now, a smart person would think, “hey this is fricken cold … be careful!”

But no, I waded into the open truck trailer, and grabbed on to the washing machine. I had only begun carrying this thing wearing gloves, when I realized, I had no grip. I threw off my gloves, clenched the washer, and began carting it down to (of course) the basement!  

Part of the way down, my fingers felt like they were on fire! I tried to hold on, I swear I did, but I couldn’t! I loosened my grip, and my pal Scott, bore the full brunt of the weight (I had frost bitten my finger pads, they were red, burning, and useless)! I had to go home, and I left them one “mover” short!

Not all parts of a move are funny, and while packing up our things, and my parents’ photo albums, I found something that took away my breath. I had come across my parents’ individual family albums. In my mother’s album, folded away carefully, was a short, typed note. If you’ve been with me for a while, you know that two of my older brothers died as babies. In the album, was a simple and neatly folded letter. The letter was from one of the nurses, a Catholic sister on the hospital staff. The letter said how sorry she, and the whole staff were, at the loss of “Baby John” Fule. It was dated, Oct.10, 1955. I was dumb-founded. I had never seen this. I knew my two older brothers died as babies, but here was a letter that showed the tragic feelings of that hospital’s staff. I thought about how preparations were made, for a baby who would never come home.  Years later, my brothers are never far from my mind, and my remaining brother has come from Vancouver to help us. 

The move is on, I get to stay in Strathmore (by choice), and my family is intact. Everyone is stressed at our house with the move, but I’m so grateful we’re alive to feel that stress.  

So, bring it all on (as Deb would say), and let’s get this “show on the road!” 

Strathmore Lakes, here come the Fules … maybe we’ll wind up with a CEE-MENT pond (like the Clampets)!

 

(“Fule for Thought” is a slice of life humourous column that appears in the Strathmore Times, written by long-time resident, town councillor, high school teacher, coach, husband and father of two – Pat Fule. If you would like to get in touch with Pat, you can send him an e-mail at Pat.fule@shaw.ca)