The Great Migration

You know things have gotten extreme, when the friend who never worries--writes to ask if you've fallen off the edge of the earth. I've meant to write, but just couldn't find the energy. I barely remember what I last wrote. In re-reading the entry, I couldn't believe what has happened in three weeks. It feels like six months. But I've gotten ahead of myself.

The Great Migration

When last I reported, I was embarking on the great migration. But before the gory details, I must reminisce about one more bon voyage party. Saturday, 9/19 I got together with my "Reel" friends — my smart, funny, wild, creative friends from the University. The "girls" who share my passion for film as well as —food, liquor and smart conversation. Patty Loew, Juli Hines, and Pam Nevar met me a the Flat Top Grill for one more bowl of stirfry and some mango margaritas (that turned out to be mojitas). Unexpected gifts and cards made me laugh and brought a few misty moments. After making everyone there sufficiently sorry they were not part of the fun, we moved the party to the Sundance Theatre for Matt Damon's newest movie (strange fare--and my pick). Juli and I laughed flat out and nearly got invited to leave. Lots of good, inappropriate sidebars.

No one ready to accept the finality that we'd convened our last movie roast, we talked instead of introducing field trips into our long term planning. The Utah Sundance Festival is on the calendar. And now I'm checking out the movie scene in Cincy.

So, back to Tuesday morning and the big ride to Cin city. In my vast wisdom, I made time to figure out that my drop dead departure time to make a 5:30pm closing in Cincy was 8:30am. I may have mentioned that my banker returned my call about whether a closing had any chance of happening that day--at 8:15am giving me a generous lead of 15 minutes. Did I mention that I was making this trip in a rented cargo van packed with my plants, most precious possessions and two weeks worth of clothes? I stopped once to gas up, grab a fistful of transfats, and do a quality control check on the ladie's loo. Maybe it's my imagination, but I feel certain I saw admiration and a little envy in the eyes of other middle-aged women who passed me on the road.

Yes, I trusted Merrill (my GPS) implicitly. It's true. Had I not followed her blindly, I might have gotten to the closing on time--but I still beat the title company's rep to the table. At first I was concerned that I was inappropriately attired in my gently dirtied jeans and my black packing tee, but I got over that fast. I slapped on some lipstick and consoled myself with the thought that I would be making the seller feel better about taking so much less money than they asked once they saw that I was "needy."

Unlike my first closing, a solemn event which resembled the reading of a will and a sense of signing yourself to a long tour at sea on a cargo ship, this closing was like a family reunion or block party. There was my banker, Jeff, whose Mr. Jolly Face in no way suggested the agony he imposed over the previous weekend. His great concern was in cluing me in on the local custom of bean bagging (they call it something I can't remember now) that resembles horseshoes--with the exception of using bean bags, of course. Then there was my real estate agent, Andrew, who fairly beamed while telling about the day the two women from Wisconsin walked in and turned everything upside down. Tracy Muchmore, the wife of a Muchmore who is a grandson of the original owner of the property and also agent for the seller, smiled pleasantly and said she was sorry to tell me there were no good stories about the place. She shared that the family members, annoyed that there wasn't more dirt in the family closet, had concocted a story that Grandpa Muchmore lost the farm in a card game. She also told me an aunt was killed down the road by the little theatre and supposedly she haunts that neck of the woods. The attorney representing Spring Valley Bank (the seller) reminded me very much of my Dad's good attorney buddy--crusty and a little eccentric. On leaving he told me I seemed like a nice woman and he hoped I'd be happy here. Of course, there was the title representative who had her hands full keeping the key players on task. Yes, the atmosphere was very much like a backyard get together minus the beer but with lots of insider info on Skyline Chili (a local must eat--served on spagetti noodles) and what to expect in the winter (everything shuts down if there is any ice--don't even think of setting foot in a Kroger grocery store--it's like y2000 all over again).

The deed was all done in an hour and Andrew carted me off for dinner at a local bistro. We marveled at what had been accomplished in 5 weeks and he assured me that though Cincy is notoriously red (except for last election) that I would find pockets of like-minded people and that the music scene is really wonderful. He came back to the house and helped me unload the van. I'd brought a single mattress down from the trundle bed in McFarland and hauled out the brief provisions I'd packed for the first night: candle, sheets, towels, toilet paper, and a couple dishes. I camped out in the upstairs back bedroom and tried to come to grips with what I'd done. I needed sleep. The movers were scheduled to arrive at 8am.