Ten years ago I moved from New York to Texas. When the moving truck was about three-quarters loaded I realized that 1) some things were maybe not going to fit, and 2) I would pay dearly for every ounce over whatever the moving company's estimate had been. And you know how on moving day you finally reach a point where you just don't care anymore? It's all too much by that time. When I reached that point, I called my friend Arlene and told her I was leaving some things in my apartment, and that she should come see if she wanted anything. Then I went off to the airport, where Lucy sat in the middle of the floor and peed---if anybody ever tries to tell you moving isn't stressful for grownups and kids, just send them to me to be set straight. Seven years later when I moved back to New York (yes, I'm a slow learner) Arlene, who had herself moved to Connecticut by then, pointed out a nice butcher block table in her garage: the very one I had left seven years earlier. Husband Artie (known as Saint Arthur for some reason I'm sure I don't understand by all who know Arlene) had sanded the top and it looked GOOD. Today, the second hottest day of the year so far at only 100 degrees, Arlene shows up at work with the table in the back of her beautiful new Hyundai. She and I unloaded it from the car, and then Lucy and I dragged it up the stairs, and now we have extra work space and extra storage in our big kitchen. And you get to see Arlene and her sweet grandkids, Caitlin and Jake. Thanks a bunch, 'Lene.
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