The Road Home

A few weekends ago I returned to Nashville to put the finishing touches on my recent migration to New York City. Although I'd started my job in New York the week before, I had to return to Music City one last time to pack up the majority of my stuff and officially move out of my apartment.

What did I learn from the experience? That moving sucks. I guess I already knew that, but it's an easy lesson to forget if you haven't moved in a while.

Living in a roomy apartment for five-plus years and being somewhat of a pack rat, I'd amassed all kinds of stuff, especially stuff I didn't even know I still had. And I found out just how much when I actually had to sift through it all. Clothes from high school, old music magazines, random CDs and cassettes, kitchen items I'd never used, various tools and cables, assorted gadgets, computer peripherals—you get the idea. I was even kind of proud of the fact that the only bottle of vegetable oil I'd ever bought—from May 2002—had somehow survived with just enough remaining to not make me want to throw it away, despite the greased-over layer that clung to the outside of the container. Gross, I know.

It was hard throwing some things away, even things that held only practical value ("Those are perfectly good hangers and jewel cases!") Things that I kept not out of necessity but on the off-chance that I needed them. But in moving to a place like New York City where space is keen, I was forced to ask myself, "Do I really need this?" for about 75% of the items I had. And most of the time the answer was "no."

The real savior of the whole moving process was my dad. A week or so before I left Nashville, he happened to be in town for a conference and was able to take many of my non-essential items back to Ohio in one of our minivans. Originally thinking that one van-full would be enough, I arranged for movers to get the rest of my stuff on December 1st. I figured I would fly back to Nashville the night before and do the rest of the packing myself, then drive my car back to my parents' house in Ohio, where I would keep it while in New York. I was on a mission, just like when I moved to Nashville on my own. But my dad wisely realized that I would be under a tough time crunch to pack and clean up by myself, so he once again volunteered his services. I still felt like I could have done it alone, but that proved to be a gross underestimation. My dad was instrumental in every step of the way, helping me pack, shipping my items out, cleaning the apartment, taking another van-full of my junk back to Ohio, and providing insight garnered from dozens of previous moves. Dad, I couldn't have done it without you.

Again, you just never know how much.... Every time we were making progress, I thought we were getting closer to wrapping things up than we actually were. But even with visible progress, there was always something else to attend to in order to leave the place like I found it. I liken the situation to that of peeling an onion, minus the severe case of watery eyes. You're just peeling away layer after layer, thinking you're gonna get there sooner before later. But it's baby steps.

Seven hours later, the flotsam that had littered my apartment disappeared. All of my framed pictures and furniture that had seen better days had vanished. Gone were my belongings and any trace that I'd actually inhabited the place. The apartment was once again a blank slate, without any memory of me for the five-and-a-half-years that I lived there.

When we were finally ready to shove off, I sat in my car before starting the ignition, taking in my apartment for the last time. I felt refreshed that we'd restored the place to the best of our ability, and relieved that the ordeal of moving out was finally over. But most of all, I felt content to be closing another chapter of my life, as amazing as it was.

Yep, it was time to move on. Time to head home.