We are home

The day finally came and went.

Our last day in our tiny apartment.

Our first day back in God's country to stay.

The U-haul was packed.

Our pallet was on the floor.

We were tired beyond our wits.

Yet, we couldn't sleep more than a few hours because our minds wouldn't stop thinking of all the things that needed to be done. Not to mention, the floor didn't offer much support or comfort.

At 5:00 next morning we gathered up odds-and-ends, said a little sad good-bye to our tiny apartment, and met our neighbor for breakfast.

He had helped us load the U-haul the day before, but we didn't want to say good-bye yet.

Panera doesn't open until 6:00, that's why we didn't leave any earlier.

300 miles later, home sweet home.

The Little House became much littler.

Since we have gotten here, we have had to 'bleed the pipes', sweep the floor, easy-off the stove, sweep the floor, Mrs. Meyer's the refrigerator, sweep the floor, pinesol the bathroom, sweep the floor, bleach the porch, sweep the floor, Kilz and paint furniture, sweep the floor, sort and clean the washhouse, sweep the floor, hang decor, sweep the floor, tear down the ramp off the porch, sweep the floor, remove a deep freezer from the porch, and sweep the floor.

But things are looking like home around here.

I started my preceptorship this past Monday with a doctor here and will do that until graduation. Mr. Z starts back to work at the restaurant his grandparents opened.

The air is sweet. Our bodies ache. The stars are clear. Our hands cramp. The rain hits a tin roof. Our hearts are content.

SOS

Hi guys, this is Beaux.

I have stolen Becky's computer to send out an urgent message.

They have kidnapped me and taken me across state lines.

This has happened before, but this time is different.

Much different.

ALL of our stuff is here.

I don't think they want to go back to the 'Dena.

I knew something was going on when they kept bringing in all the boxes.

Then they brought this home.

They called in reinforcements.

Then our apartment looked like this.

I was afraid they were going to leave me, so I stayed close to the doorway and under their feet.

But then they made this awesome pallet and I thought we were just going to be minimalists.

I was sorely mistaken.

They brought me to The Little House in so-called 'God's country'.

Ok, I like The Little House, but it's a vacation place. It's in the middle of no-where.

And since we got here, it's been no vacation.

Work, work, work.

And all I ever hear is 'Beaux! Don't do that.', 'Beaux! Get out of the road!', 'Beaux! Don't eat that!', 'Beaux! Don't you go to up to Momma's house!' Beaux, Beaux, Beaux...

It's taken me so long to make this cry for help because we haven't had internet or any contact with the outside world.

So, if someone can find this God-forsaken place, please come get me and take me back to the civilization!

PLEASE!

Good Bye Texas

So we are no longer Texas residents.

The move has been successful.

Our legs are tired.

Our backs ache.

Our brains hurt.

Our hands cramp.

Our hearts are full.

Inside the box

Just to let you guys know, if you need me, I'm buried underneath boxes, packing tape, and Mark-A-Lots.

The stacks continue to grow.

It's a strange feeling.

The feeling I get when I look around and see our home being packed up.

Wrapped in newspaper, boxed, taped and labeled.

It's not exactly the feeling that I'm loosing my home or leaving my home, but that I can take it with me.

I've moved before.

I moved to college, but I it wasn't for real.

I still did my laundry at Momma's.

I moved from Momma's to The Little House, but it was sort of a temporary transition instead of a move.

Most of my stuff was still packed up.

Then we moved here.

Most of our wedding presents were still in their original boxes when we unpacked them here.

Once we unpacked, everything had its place. We were settled.

Mr. Z and I had to figure out how a marriage worked.

How a household worked.
How to combine each other's junk in our junk.

How to merge two lives completely.

That's what we are packing up. Our lives.

Now, I don't want you to think I feel that our lives are our things, but our things do represent our life.

Inside the boxes are:

The books we've studied.

The bills we have paid.

The gifts we have been given.

The dishes we picked out.

The games we have played

The movies we've watched.

The pictures we have taken.
The clothes we have worn.

The memories we have made.

It's a little sad, really exciting, extremely joyful, and super scary.

Now I'm off to attempt to scrub the newspaper ink off my fingers.

Editing

Since the Big Move is coming up, we have been doing some editing.

It's amazing how much junk you can get rid of when you ask yourself one question:

"Is this ____ worth keeping if we have to move it across state lines?"

Then if you are still not sure, ask yourself:

"If we were to pack it and it fell off the truck, would I even know it was missing?"

We are also getting things together for a mega garage sale!

So that involves some more editing.

Anyone that has ever cleaned out a closet, or garage, or even a coupon drawer knows that feeling you get.

Lighter.

At this rate, I will be 132 lbs before it's all over.