Moving

Over the last couple of years, a number of my friends have moved – some a mile or two, others six or seven hours away. The reasons for moving are varied: new jobs, foreclosures, marriage, family obligations, and other reasons. I’m trying to gauge if this recent spate of relocations is any greater than any other periods of comparison. I don’t know.

I recall my big move. I accepted a job with Ducks Unlimited in 1993 that required relocating to the greater Memphis area. As I had lived in Southeastern Michigan from age four, this was a pretty big change. Hell, it was a huge change.

Leaving: I sold my little house on the Huron River near Brighton, Michigan to a couple I met accidently one evening at the Whitmore Lake Tavern. I had owned that house about six months before accepting the Tennessee job and had spent most of that six months swinging a hammer and flailing a paint brush. I had added a wall, replaced a ceiling, upgraded the bathroom, and remodeled the master bedroom – oh, and thanks to my buddy Scott, changed the doors. Did OK on the sale.
 
Didn’t do nearly as OK leaving Mom’s the morning of the drive. . .fortunately, the tears cleared by the time the expressway loomed.

Arriving: after two months in a hotel, I moved into my log cabin one county east of the Memphis area. The home was on three wooded acres, had a pond, and a seventeen mile commute to the office.

Oh, did I mention the neighbors?

I took possession of the house the first of May and had all the carpets cleaned and the interior scrubbed prior to the delivery of “my stuff.” The “stuff's” arrival was mid-week and, because of the winding driveway, the movers had to hand-carry everything from the road – probably a 75 yard haul. The weather was kind that day and I had remembered to have plenty of cold beverages to share with the movers.

Maybe two hours into the process, a couple – about 20 years my senior – walked up to the porch (I have to brag on the porch – it was fifty feet wide, had ceiling fans, and the previous owner left me her oak rocking chairs). Chuck and Joan introduced themselves and Joan eased into one of the rockers – Chuck chose one of the porch posts and did the characteristic lean that included tucking his thumbs into his belt. I was simultaneously welcomed and eyed up.

Before I share the conversation, I fast forward 3 months to a visit by my mother and aunt. Sheila and Alice arrived mid-afternoon at the cabin and immediately began cooking. You see, when one’s youngest son (and nearly youngest nephew) is out in the wilds of Tennessee, filling his freezer is a necessary (and, absolutely welcome!) act. The freezer was soon filled with pot pies, rolls, soups, stews, and other flavors of love.

What we didn’t know, however, was that this very afternoon, the FBI was in the neighborhood searching for the body of a missing woman. Martha “Doe” Roberts had disappeared from her home in August, 1992 (months prior to my relocation) and her family received a ransom demand of $185,000.

The FBI agents were dragging ponds in my neighborhood looking for Mrs. Roberts. . .and were at the very next door house when down-the-road neighbor Charles Lord (not Chuck of Chuck and Joan) admitted his crime (seems he had debts that matched the ransom sum) and showed where he had hidden her body – under his garden. I can only imagine Mom and my aunt’s reaction had there been a knock from the feds wanting to drag the pond! (I also remain very grateful for never receiving any tomatoes from Mr. Lord's garden).

As an aside, Mrs. Lord quickly divorced her murderous husband and moved after an estate sale where I secured a couple of lamps and a shovel – I try not to over think the shovel.

Back to that arrival. Chuck was a fellow who didn’t waste any words. After some introductory pleasantries, Chuck got down to business.

“Where y'all from?” he said, without accusation.

“Michigan.”

Chuck snorted “huh” and leaned quietly.

A couple of minutes later: “Y’all got any poisonous snakes in Michigan?”

“Not really,” I replied not wanting to get into the whole Mississauga Rattler explanation.

Chuck again snorted, “Huh.” A minute or two passed.

“Well,” he started with an enviable dialect befitting Faulkner. “I ain’t trying to scare ya none – but don’t go a-reachin’ where you ain’t been a lookin’.” Joan nodded.

Tennessee has its share of Water Moccasins and Copperheads – and my rural home with its pond was a location of high potential for both species. Chuck’s admonition was proven true after encountering a nest of young Copperheads while removing a stump. After all, he had announced that arrival day that “the wife killed a big-un in my garage.” Joan had also nodded to that fact.

I imagine that my many friends who are relocating will meet their own neighbors and find bits of advice well worth heeding. I, for one, cling to the practical genius of “don’t go a-reachin’ where ya ain’t been a-lookin’.”


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