But, perhaps it's precisely because we had such a hell of a time getting out of our adopted city that we decided to stay put once we arrived at our new home in Tennessee. The fender-bender with our 24-foot Budget rental truck and a parked car, along with sub-zero temperatures and bitter winds set the stage for the worst moving experience I've had to date. And, I've moved eight times in the last nine years.
When it became apparent that the diesel rental truck full of our stuff was not going to start—nobody thought it important to mention that you're supposed to leave diesels running all night when it gets below 20—my dad and I decided to get on the road—I with my red Honda and a back seat full of Jojo (our boxer), and he with our other car towed behind his truck. The Dr. stayed with friends, waiting for the truck to get warmed up enough to make the eight-hour trip.
As we got farther down into Illinois, the snow and ice on the side of the road began to disappear. The fierce wind kept following us, though, so I had to keep a death-grip on the steering wheel with one hand while my other desperately tried to find music that made no mention of mistletoe, Santa or holy nights.
I think it's safe to skip ahead to the part where the good Dr. arrived in Tennessee, about 10 hours behind us, and we decided to unload the truck ourselves rather than wait for movers to come the next morning. It's not that we were feeling particularly ambitious. We just had nothing to sleep on.
We had planned to head north again to Indianapolis and Cincinnati to visit our respective families for Christmas, but we underestimated our fatigue about a thousand percent. Instead we opted for a quiet holiday in the spacious three-bedroom house we're renting. As a woman with multiple sets of parents, I usually have to drag my poor husband (and dog) around to several holiday celebrations, each of which is cut short because of the one we have to get to next. While we like seeing everyone, we usually leave exhausted and frustrated. Being able to leisurely unpack, put up our own tree, take a nap, play outside with the dog—it's been in the 60s and 70s—was a wonderful, much-needed change of pace.
We've been in our little town (pop. 919, well now I guess it's 921) for almost a week. I might feel a bit more anxious if I didn't love our house so much. I am reveling in the space, but also fighting the urge to fill it with furniture we've yet to purchase. (We just bought a refrigerator and a washer and dryer, so our furniture shopping is going to have to wait.)
The people we've met seem surprised when we tell them we've moved here from Chicago. Whatever would have brought us here. The answer is: a tenure-track job for my husband, and a job that lets me work from home. They also, without fail, warn us of the culture shock as if we hadn't considered that this country town would be different from what we're used to in a city of 3 million. So far, I'd say the biggest surface differences are: the availability of fried bologna sandwiches, the requirement to drive everywhere and the lack of alcoholic beverages in our county (except for cheap domestic beer that for some reason is suitable to sell at gas stations in a "dry county").
The people, while they seem to be worried about how we'll adjust, have all been quite welcoming. Our neighbor brought us some cinnamon raisin bread and a Christmas card, and invited us to her church. Nobody in Chicago ever raised so much as an eyebrow at our arrival. The college bookstore let me in to buy some presents even though it was officially closed. The bagger at the grocery store asked us how our day was, and we met an older gentleman, maybe in his 70s, in line at the Wal-Mart Supercenter who introduced himself, welcomed us to town and expressed his happiness that our Illinois Senator was now president-elect. I, for one, assumed that everyone here was disappointed with the election results. Perhaps in the weeks to come, I will find out that other assumptions I had about the South were wrong, too.
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