"Not my truck"
Moving is such a hullabaloo. Thinking of moving your stuff from point A to point B makes your stomach hurt. You just really want to get it there without too many of the other three M’s - meltdowns, major mishaps, or murder.
Charles and I had our share of moves, but the worst was a return to the Nashville area. It was a corporate move so I (foolishly) felt safe leaving the movers at point A toward the end of the packing because I really needed to get back to middle Tennessee before they would be ready to leave. I’ll just go ahead and give you the end now because, like Star Wars, that paves the way for the earlier story.
Once all our stuff was delivered and just about unloaded, I began to realize that quite a bit was missing. I inquired of the driver. He explained that, sadly, there just wasn’t enough room on the truck for the rest of the stuff, but he was sure I could take a small truck back there myself (almost 400 miles round trip) and retrieve it. I was sure if that had to happen, it would be accompanied by one of the three M’s.
But before this, my mother, who had come into town to help, and I were waiting at point B. Charles always managed to be elsewhere when major moving occurred. (Do all husbands do that? Actually, that’s not pertinent to the story; just feels good to share.) Mama and I waited for the truck to come down the street. Finally, finally, she could see it in the distance and I ran outside to flag him in. He drove right past me, slowed at the next block, laboriously turned the big truck around, came back up, and pulled straight into our driveway.
I greeted him with apology, telling him I was so sorry I couldn’t make him see me quickly enough to avoid all that turning around. This was his response. “Oh, I saw you, but the unloading door is on the right side of the truck and I had to pull into the driveway from the other direction so that side would be toward your house.” He smiled pleasantly.
I stood there a second, my brain muddling through what he just said, and finally replied. “Wait a minute. You pulled into my driveway cab forward. It doesn’t make any difference which direction you’re coming from. The right side of your truck is still going to be facing my house.” My mover stood there a second, then shrugged, and said, “Well, it’s not my truck.”
It’s hard to argue with that line. It has served me well over the years.