I'd thought Monday was the last time I'd see the old house and my parents in their old context. But my mother, whom I missed saying goodbye to in the rush of I'm not ready to talk about it yet, hoped to have dinner, and we arranged a meetup near their home-until-Friday, and my father was able to be along, and there we go. Naturally we ate at a restaurant that's been there roughly forever and that, as far as I can tell, none of us have ever set foot in before, and I guess never will again. I was glad seeing them, though.
And it was useful, too: while they expected Wednesday to be the day the house finally empties, of course they're running late and they asked if I could spare an hour or so to help them pack. I couldn't be so cruel as to say no. So I made what I now expect to be my final visit to the retirement community and helped them in putting things into boxes, closing boxes up, labelling boxes with things like ``2013 Kitchen Glasses'', and putting them in the garage where my father and a friend should be able to load it all into a moving truck tomorrow.
(It was personally lucky for me, too, since I'd left my camera at the house without consciously realizing, although I suspected I might have.)
It's weird and alien in there now, with remnants of life like mattresses put up against the walls and the TV sets unplugged and sitting in the corner and my father, resting after a day of hard labor after weeks of the hard labor of packing, sitting in his chair and getting calls from, apparently, everybody in the world wishing them well in their move.
And my parents verified that they were enough ahead of the curve to finish clearing things out tomorrow (I think it's going to be terribly tight anyway), and my mother had to go to her temporary quarters (which I'll have to tell you about because you won't believe them) and gave me a letter to drop in the mailbox, and the local newspaper called to ask why they were cancelling their subscription (``We're moving out of state'', my father said, and the woman on the other end said she was sorry, but she meant sorry to disturb them), and my mother left and the cats were left wandering around confused (``I told them what was happening'', my father said, and my mother undercut the joke by pointing out they don't speak his language), and I hugged my father and urged him to be strong and told him I loved him, and, I left.
Trivia: On 9 January 1911 the Court of Appeals of New York ruled unanimously that not all internal combustion cars were alike and that George B Selden's patent did not cover four-cycle engines such as Ford used. Source: Henry and Edsel: The Creation of the Ford Empire, Ricahrd Bak.
Currently Reading: American-Made: The Enduring Legacy of the WPA, Nick Taylor.