After negotiating with the moving company, we agreed to dates—and the best (or cheapest) landed on Christmas Eve. At least we’d be in San Diego with our family, even though we couldn’t be at the big house. We would squeeze four adults (including our two daughters), two dogs and a cat in the 750 square foot condo. We are the fortunate. We have places to sleep.
The movers loaded the van over two days, drove in shifts to Southern California, and planned to arrive in Cuyamaca on the morning of Dec. 24. We vacationed in Monterey for our last night, then packed up our final precious cargo—our cat, who was fully drugged and stuffed into her cat carrier. The vet administered the perfect dose for the ten-hour drive, as Jade stirred just as I pulled into the condo parking lot. I opened the carrier, and she staggered out—intoxicated, disoriented, dragging one leg, probably asleep from long ride. Jade stumbled around her new surroundings—“Where the hell am I?” I can only imagine what was running through that crazy cat head. That night, no one slept much because the cat ran over our heads, under our beds, through the cupboards, inspecting every corner of the condo.
Early the next morning after a few fitful hours of sleep, Dale and I grabbed a country breakfast in Ramona, while monitoring the weather on our cell phones. Forecasters predicted snow on Christmas Eve; the approaching storms appeared as dark thick bands on our weather apps. This race was on! Packers needed to unload everything and back up our steep, very steep driveway before the first snowflakes drifted down. And so did we, as we lacked chains, snow tires, or four-wheel drive vehicles.
Three burly guys met the two truck drivers—all five standard San Diegans, wearing appropriate beach attire—shorts, t-shirts, and Nikes, unprepared for temperatures below 50 degrees, but it was 40 degrees outside, the temperature dropping, the rain beginning. Since our house is at 5400 feet and has three flights of stairs, they warmed up quickly. By 4:30 pm, sunset at 4:50 pm, the body builder-packers brought up the last of the boxes. We generously tipped them, wished them well as the moving van struggled up the steep (Super Steep. Have I mentioned this before?) driveway and slid down the winding, now coated with black ice North Peak Road.
Dale leaned over the kitchen island; I sprawled across the dining room chairs, as we stared at the boxes to be unpacked. With our vaulted ceilings, the stacks stretched to infinity. Okay, 24 feet anyway. We needed to get home for Christmas, but not before we toasted our move. We popped the cork of the champagne bottle and each tossed back a short swig. No idea which box held the glasses. That didn’t matter; we needed to get off the mountain. The rest of the bottle saved for later.