The old editor has a gimpy knee this week, hobbled by a brief stint as a furniture mover at year’s end.
Oh, the money we saved. Oh, the pain inflicted by age-inappropriate behavior. I had trouble holding up my end of the world’s heaviest sofa.
My firstborn and his pretty wife have bought a home in Round Hill, Va., a mile from their previous residence. She wanted to hire movers, but it seemed a waste to him. Their real estate agent has a moving truck and loans it free to anyone who buys through that firm. Why not use it?
So old dad, Elizabeth and young Michael drove up to lend our muscles to the task. How hard could it be to move a mile? As it turns out, distance between homes is not the major consideration in moving.
I returned home with a new axiom for newlyweds: Don’t buy a big sofa until you’ve been married 10 years and are so established in your career that you won’t be moving.
Mary and I received a sofa from her parents when we married in 1978. The cushions lifted off, leaving a light frame easily carried by one person. We moved it four times. I thought about that old sofa fondly over the weekend.
Paul’s sofa is one of those puffy leather monsters, wider than most doorways and as heavy as several anvils. Michael had to push in the pillows to allow us to clear the door while I struggled to keep a grip on my slippery end. Sofas don’t have handles. Michael volunteered to relieve me, but I’ve too much pride to yield to an 11 year old.
The sofa and a heavy chest of drawers were our major challenges.
The chest, one I had given to them, had to go up a flight of stairs, turn left, up five more steps, turn right, and up one more step. I went up the steps first, serving as navigator. There’s a divot in their wall now.
Up and down the steps we went with …