Time To Catch Up

This may take a while, so be patient.

What happened was I needed to move home. I'm a Minnesotan, by birth, a Chicagoan by home town.

Which, all things considered, meant I needed for my own survival, to move home to Chicago. And so I did.

I rented a flat right next to Lake Michigan, within a half block of a small beach, all based upon my phenomenal memory for buildings, places and whatever. I was soooo, sooooo, very wrong.

It turned out that I was virtually on the lake. Not a big deal, all things considered. However, there were problems, and not with the rent, location, or that sort of stuff.

You see, I have a big desk. The building has a small entry. I have a big couch. The building has a small entry. I have a grand piano. The building has a very, very, very small entryway, with stairs requiring too small a turning radius for getting the desk, couch and piano inside.

I looked at the front entry.

I measured.

I checked.

I double checked, on the advice of measure twice, make fewer fatal errors.

My stuff wouldn't fit.

So, lease easily broken, I found a new flat.

Now, I'll share the idiot-synchronisities in the future, but let me just say, the company I rented from and the building itself, were pretty darned good. And every place has idiot-synchronisities, so no matter.

Anyhoo, I found this truly wonderful new flat, a block from Lake Michigan, which has made the sunrise a wonderful experience on a daily basis.

The building has an elevator. Having gotten too close to the old 'double nickle', this is a good thing. This is a good thing even if I only use it when toting groceries in, or after a 5 mile walk. Sometimes, it is a pain avoidance thing when my back says, 'you're older now, what are you thinking?"

And yes, I always walk down and only walk up when I must. Which, honestly speaking has been more than truly necessary. I'm working on it.

Now, the move itself was a nightmare, causing nightmares and a blue funk that has yet to lift. Truly.

They truck arrived on the appointed day and for hours, no piano right by the door so that the movers could get the big, black behemoth to the third floor, up the stairs, as they needed to do. I'm no expert, but when you've got a 800 pound chunk of musical perfection, enclosed in a satin black case, to move into a building, and nothing happens until after 6 pm, and lots of other stuff moves in, you've got a situation where the movers might be getting tired.

And they were.

Tired.

Very tired.

I offered them pizza. Soda. Chocolate. Anything their little hearts or stomachs could desire. I couldn't offer them a nap, which they all needed by that time.

No, no, no, no, and no.

They were fine. They swore up and down they were fine.

Honest, they said, they were ready and it would be no problem to get the heavy stuff in, especially as that heavy stuff all came up for hoisting up the stairs at the end of the day.

They were not fine.

They started moving the piano in, and the cursing started immediately. Loudly and repetitive cursing was heard.

Now, they also left a bunch of boxes unattended, which meant that passersby could 'shop' through my 'stuff' and I lost some pretty important stuff due to that not too slick move too.

But, back to the piano.

35 minutes after they started, they were at the first floor. The ground floor is the ground floor, and I live on the third, which is in fact the fourth story of a five story building. Hence the elevator. And no, no matter what, the piano wasn't going to fit into the elevator, except in pieces. That could have been better in retrospect, but I digress.

But, never mind, they were making progress.

And there were those sounds like someone hitting the string harp which holds all the strings inside the big black satin case, with a sledge hammer.

And more cursing.

And finally they got up the stairs.

They rolled the piano in through the back door of my flat, and I was worn out myself, just from worry.

Now, when the piano was packed in St. Paul, it was supposed to be shrink wrapped and taped and bound and otherwise affixed to the piano board. They used about 100 feet of moving tape, no shrink wrap and minimal blankets.

So, when it came time to put the piano together, there were gouges and dings. Many gouges and dings.

There are about three octaves of frozen keys.

There are two non-functional pedals on the pedal harp, though it appears the pedals are properly attached to the body.

The hinges were bent and twisted from falling against something.

The stick that holds the top up doesn't. Hold the top up, that is, because it too is broken.

The hinges for the top of the piano are twisted.

The drop board doesn't drop, nor does it go all the way up.

I have a giant, formerly beautiful, chunk of heartbreak in my living room.

Breaking my heart.

They could have done better if they'd dropped it from the fourth floor. At least the damage would have been quick, total and sure.

As a result, I fell into a funk that I've still not found the bottom of, nor do I know how to overcome the sorrow. I had, emphasis on 'had' a beautiful piano. Now I have a silent piece of furniture that is neither functional, nor musical.

As for the other stuff that is missing? Well, that's mostly books, silverware, an old laptop computer, some yarns and partially finished sweaters, a sweater I'd been knitting and which only needed to be stitched up, and more books. Those were the boxes from the end of the packing, with research I needed for a book I was writing.

I've had to re-do all the research, and that wasn't terribly easy to accomplish.

I'm trying to get the moving company to come out and inspect the damage.

They also have to replace my desk chair, as the seat was ripped off and cannot be reattached. And there is more, but that can wait. In the meantime, I'm without my lovely piano. The silence and the bruised and broken piano are a harsh reminder that 'stuff does happen'. But stuff didn't need to happen if they'd packed it right, moved it in early, or gotten more people as the movers were tired.

But that's the story of the move, and mostly about the piano move. Oh how I miss my lovely piano. I am hoping that the tears will eventually stop.

And please, no cracks about 'you can't go home again'. You can, I did, and I am more at home here than I ever was in my hometown. I'll keep you all posted.