{"id":86,"date":"2021-02-25T11:03:11","date_gmt":"2021-02-25T11:03:11","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/wendirank.com\/?p=86"},"modified":"2021-03-02T16:59:53","modified_gmt":"2021-03-02T16:59:53","slug":"the-move-part-2","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/wendirank.com\/index.php\/2021\/02\/25\/the-move-part-2\/","title":{"rendered":"The Move, Part 2"},"content":{"rendered":"

I\u2019m not sure how many \u201cparts\u201d the story<\/a> of my parents\u2019 move will have. It is, to be sure, my parents\u2019 tale, although I\u2019ll do the telling. Like my parents, this story is not neat and tidy, as I would have it \u2013 and them – be. But then they\u2019d tell you that I\u2019m obsessive, they\u2019d tell you the fault lies with them for potty training me at age 2.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

They say they never potty trained my sister. She\u2019s nearly 41. I\u2019d rather be me.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

My parents, at my urging, decided to sell their house. They found a lovely independent living community, complete with a movie theater and Friday night happy hours. I offered to spend a day or two a week at their house. Our plan was to go through each room, closet, cabinet. We would pack. We would donate. We would, Mother Earth forgive us, discard.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Preparing to move is an arduous task for anyone. Even more so when you\u2019re 81 and have Parkinson\u2019s disease. Or if you\u2019re like my mom \u2013 asthmatic, legally blind, partial vision loss in one eye.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

When the vision loss began two years ago, I told my mom that she had become One-Eyed Willie<\/a>, the lost pirate in The Goonies<\/em>. A few times, I tagged along on her ophthalmologist appointments, calling her Willie the whole time. I thought I was very funny.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Willie, grumpy as I assume most pirates to be, did not think I was funny. So I pointed out my dad, whom I\u2019ve always felt bore a passing resemblance to Harrison Ford, is Indiana Jones. And Willie was the name of the Bond-ish Girl in Temple of Doom<\/em><\/a>. I emphasized how perfectly the nickname fit.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Well, if Willie wasn\u2019t thrilled at being called a pirate, she was even less thrilled at being called a vapid showgirl. She also firmly disagreed with me on the Harrison Ford bit. My dad most certainly didn\u2019t resemble Harrison Ford that day or any other.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Like mothers everywhere, Willie knew that she was right. Like daughters everywhere, I knew I was the one on legitimate ground. And since this is my column and not Willie\u2019s, I get to think of my parents as Indy and Willie.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

As I helped Indy and Willie pack fifty years into a two-bedroom apartment, a pattern began to emerge. Willie would express uncertainty over an item unearthed in the house. A bag of fabric, say, or a framed needlepoint. The item\u2019s presence was heretofore unknown. But now that it had been discovered, perhaps she could use it. But should she really be bringing something she didn\u2019t even know existed to an apartment so small?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Indy had a whole different set of problems. Willie was often telling him that things he wanted to keep \u2013 like his tools \u2013 could not accompany him to the apartment. There simply wasn\u2019t enough room, especially if Willie was packing random bags of fabric and kitschy needlepoints.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

These exchanges reduced my heart –\u00a0 already battered from Willie\u2019s traumatic<\/a> hospitalization<\/a> and Indy\u2019s Parkinson\u2019s \u2013 to smithereens. It lay shattered beneath my sternum, screaming with pain each time Indy and Willie had to decide what was worthy of living out the rest of its life in their tiny two-bedroom.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

So I became Short Round, tossing Indy\u2019s whip in the nick of time, pulling them out of what really amounted to inconsequential decisions but felt like so much more. To Willie, I\u2019d say give me the bag of fabric, the needlepoint. I\u2019ll keep it at my house. Get settled. If there\u2019s room, great. If not, that bag of fabric can stay with me until you figure out where it belongs. And for God\u2019s sake, don\u2019t hang that tacky needlepoint.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"
How do you live like this?!<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

 <\/p>\n

I\u2019m sure you recognize this gesture qualifies me for martyrdom. You know I don\u2019t like stuff. A boyfriend once called my bedroom Spartan. My girlfriends called it The Oasis \u2013 my bedroom was free of the rubble they traversed in the rest of my parents\u2019 house. I won\u2019t turn it down if you nominate me for a Nobel or something. Also, don\u2019t expect me to keep it. A medal is just more stuff.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I had to handle Indy somewhat differently. Whenever he was instructed to do away with his nonessentials, I\u2019d get him alone. I\u2019d say give me your tools\/ box of random wires\/ picture you think is Hitler. I\u2019ll keep it at my house. I\u2019ll sneak it to the apartment if you ever need it.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The presumed Hitler picture is a whole other story.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Now Indy is always fine to store stuff at my house. In fact, he often volunteers my house for storage. Indy thinks I can do anything and while Indy is right, having all that stuff at my house pushes my limits.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Willie, conversely, feels deep guilt for storing anything at my house. I think she should feel deep guilt for having a 41-year-old daughter who isn\u2019t potty trained, but whatever keeps you up at night is whatever keeps you up at night, you know?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"
I draw the line at the weird bear. Donate it.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

 <\/p>\n

And here we are a year later. I have an entire sewing machine \u2013 the machine itself, the housing table, the bench, all of the thread and fabric, needles and stick pins \u2013 holed up in my playroom. Willie\u2019s Nightingale Award<\/a> is in a shoebox in my bedroom closet. A fake Christmas tree was evicted from my aunt\u2019s basement, emergency housing proffered by my garage. Books Indy never read but got for a really good price at a flea market lay scattered about my house like a rash.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

But the frozen French fries take the cake.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

This story may be my parents\u2019, but it is another freezer<\/a> story. It\u2019s as though 2019 was determined to be my Year Of The Freezer. I think that\u2019s how I\u2019ll always remember it. Maybe messing with my freezer is how I identify love.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

My parents\u2019 former home, like my current one, had not only a standard refrigerator but a chest freezer. Their house didn\u2019t have a garage \u2013 thank you, Universe. I\u2019d still be packing if it did \u2013 so the chest freezer resided in the laundry room at the back of their home.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The new apartment has a beautiful refrigerator- a black side-by-side that gleams, makes ice, and really fits jack all in the freezer. One night, while I was at the kids\u2019 karate class, Indy called me. My parents were still in their house, the move not yet made.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Indy had a box of frozen goodies that he needed me to keep in my freezer. I believe these frozen edibles were of vital importance to national security. The provisions could not \u2013 COULD NOT \u2013 stay at my parents\u2019 house. Indy needed me to come get them. Now.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I was not close to their house. This errand was going to take me a good hour. More, if you count the time spent unpacking everything into my freezer. My evening schedule is strict. By 8 P.M. I am required to be in my pajamas, enjoying a lava cake, a cold beer, and a good book. Ooh – or a good show! Have you guys watched The Punisher<\/em> on Netflix? Jon Bernthal is totally one of my gimmes.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Well Jon was just going to have wait that night. I picked up the box of frozen food. And no. Indy didn\u2019t tell me why I had to take it. He only just told my mother he once guarded a nuclear site when he was a Marine and he\u2019s known her since 1968. I\u2019m thinking the box of frozen food will maybe be a deathbed confession.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Arriving home, I ignored Don\u2019s perplexed looks and began unpacking. To be fair, there were some normal frozen goodies. Ore-Ida tater-tots and such. But there\u2019s no honor in talking about your parents\u2019 hockey-puck burger patties.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The box held a dozen bags of Sargento shredded cheese. A dozen! They\u2019re two people. One family-sized dinner recipe lasts them two to three days. Also, who freezes shredded cheese? Or any cheese?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Six ravioli lay encased in a snack-sized resealable bag. Were they special in some way? Unable to be eaten with the rest of their carbohydrate friends? Were they being saved for a night when someone was only slightly hungry? Would my parents divide them evenly \u2013 three apiece?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"
Let me be clear: These ravioli are so small they fit in a SNACK-sized – not sandwich-sized – resealable bag.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Once Indy and Willie moved, it was my job to empty the chest freezer. I\u2019m not sure how this task was assigned to me. I have my suspicions, though, because of the way that job reached its terminus.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I must have been feeling optimistic. I only brought three paper grocery bags to haul their frozen hoard to the apartment. Those bags were quickly filled by the entire ham, whole turkey, and three bed pillow-sized bags of vegetables occupying the chest freezer.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I removed bag after bag of crystallized carrots. Meat in every form it is presented by modern supermarkets. Mystery bags filled with things I hoped wouldn\u2019t defrost in my car.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Arriving at the apartment, I quickly filled the freezer. The laundry baskets I\u2019d filled with the overflow from the grocery bags stubbornly refused to empty. My choices were obvious. I could lie. Lie that I never saw the 800-pound turkey in the freezer. Lie about the better part of the Jolly Green Giant\u2019s annual vegetable production whiling away its days in the laundry room.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Or I could reunite the mystery bags of what I could only hope was in fact frozen food with the dozen bags of cheese by this time living rent-free in my chest freezer.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I went for the latter.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Precious little room existed in my chest freezer, thanks to a certain hunter<\/a>. But I managed to make it work. Tater tots snuggled with pheasant. Random baggies of ice canoodled with venison. Every corner was occupied.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"
Reusable ice cubes, complete with the Phillies logo.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

 <\/p>\n

Over the next six months, Indy and Willie\u2019s Armageddon supply of frozen vegetables would periodically whittle down to a terrifyingly low sum over at their apartment. I would resupply them with the stash in my chest freezer. When deer season rolled around in the fall, I made an emergency transfer to make room for 2019\u2019s venison.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

That was a tough year, 2019. For a multitude of reasons. When I got sick January second, it was the Universe stepping in again. I spent days bundled up on my sofa, buzzing through Hotel Beau Sejour<\/em> on Netflix. I only moved to take Indy to his Parkinson\u2019s boxing<\/a> class. That was a good week, despite the aches and exhaustion.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Not long after I recovered, I was rooting around my chest freezer for some ground venison, which I enjoy raw from time to time.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

That\u2019s a joke. I actually make some really good dinners<\/a> with that venison. You know, cooked.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

While shifting the pheasant and venison cuts I\u2019m not allowed to cook, I found a bag of frozen French fries. I don\u2019t buy them so I know they belonged to Indy and Willie. The Universe again. Telling me I had survived, but 2019 continues to crack my soul like the Grand Canyon cracks the Arizona landscape.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"
That would be a hunk of ice, about the size of a small apple, sealed in a baggie. It moved from my parents\u2019 house, to my house, to the apartment. It was that important.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

 <\/p>\n

On Fridays, my dad and I take long walks, to help his Parkinson\u2019s. I brought the fries with me that Friday. I tucked them in, cozy with their vegetarian compadres, then allowed Indy to escort me into the hallway to start our walk.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cI want to show you something,\u201d he said. He navigated to the narrow pink border of the hallway carpet. His balance is awful, but he walked that pink strip like his life depended on it, like he was a Wallenda with nothing but space below.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve been practicing,\u201d he said, and what was left of my heart splintered into dust. Indy, the Marine, my dad who used to balance me on his raised feet as he lay on the floor, who guarded a nuclear site and never told a soul, had been practicing his balance. Because that\u2019s what\u2019s left.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Don says it\u2019s good not to have a heart anymore. I don\u2019t disagree. The only times I cry now are during every episode of Star Trek: Picard<\/em> and each time I watch Jim & Pam\u2019s wedding on The Office<\/em>.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I mean, every time.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I watched Indy balance, afraid to speak, afraid the fragments of my heart would erupt from my throat. I wondered how I would make it through that walk when all I wanted was to go back to that week of my sofa and Hotel Beau Sejour<\/em>.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

That was when my dad turned to me. And said the one thing that could make everything all right.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cHey,\u201d he said, stepping off the pink border, \u201ccan you bring me that picture of Hitler? There\u2019s a lady that lives here. I want to show it to her and\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Well, now that\u2019s another thing I\u2019m glad isn\u2019t in my freezer.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I\u2019m not sure how many \u201cparts\u201d the story of my parents\u2019 move will have. It is, to be sure, my parents\u2019 tale, although I\u2019ll do the telling. Like my parents, this story is not neat and tidy, as I would have it \u2013 and them – be. But then they\u2019d tell you that I\u2019m obsessive,…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":89,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[2],"tags":[5,3,6,7,4],"yoast_head":"\nThe Move, Part 2 - Wendi Rank<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"How much frozen cheese do two people need?\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"noindex, follow\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"The Move, Part 2 - Wendi Rank\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"How much frozen cheese do two people need?\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/wendirank.com\/index.php\/2021\/02\/25\/the-move-part-2\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"Wendi Rank\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2021-02-25T11:03:11+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2021-03-02T16:59:53+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/wendirank.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/02\/Screen-Shot-2021-02-25-at-5.58.46-AM.png\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:width\" content=\"924\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:height\" content=\"630\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:type\" content=\"image\/png\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"wendi\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"wendi\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Est. reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"11 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\/\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"Article\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/wendirank.com\/index.php\/2021\/02\/25\/the-move-part-2\/#article\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/wendirank.com\/index.php\/2021\/02\/25\/the-move-part-2\/\"},\"author\":{\"name\":\"wendi\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/wendirank.com\/#\/schema\/person\/81fa1f6bb0eed6ccabd60fce3c44bdfd\"},\"headline\":\"The Move, Part 2\",\"datePublished\":\"2021-02-25T11:03:11+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2021-03-02T16:59:53+00:00\",\"mainEntityOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/wendirank.com\/index.php\/2021\/02\/25\/the-move-part-2\/\"},\"wordCount\":2357,\"commentCount\":0,\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/wendirank.com\/#\/schema\/person\/81fa1f6bb0eed6ccabd60fce3c44bdfd\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/wendirank.com\/index.php\/2021\/02\/25\/the-move-part-2\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\/\/wendirank.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/02\/Screen-Shot-2021-02-25-at-5.58.46-AM.png\",\"keywords\":[\"Parkinson's\",\"Parkinson's disease\",\"Parkinson's disease awareness\",\"Parkinson's sucks\",\"sandwich generation\"],\"articleSection\":[\"Sandwich Generation\"],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"CommentAction\",\"name\":\"Comment\",\"target\":[\"https:\/\/wendirank.com\/index.php\/2021\/02\/25\/the-move-part-2\/#respond\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/wendirank.com\/index.php\/2021\/02\/25\/the-move-part-2\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/wendirank.com\/index.php\/2021\/02\/25\/the-move-part-2\/\",\"name\":\"The Move, Part 2 - 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