“ADVENTURE IN MOVING”

JULY 6, 2019 – Last week I moved my office from the historic Flour Exchange Building to high-tech space down the street in downtown Minneapolis. The move was prompted by a rent hike at the old place and my realization that with the wholesale digitalization of my practice, my office—with space-hogging furniture plus cabinets filled with obsolete paper—had become very expensive storage space. The new, downsized space is all I need and for a corresponding reduction in rent. I scanned and archived all that paper digitally then sent it to the shredder. I also chucked a lot of unnecessary furniture. To move the remaining items (chairs, bookcase, credenza, one wooden file cabinet), I called, “College Movers.”

Two young guys appeared. I didn’t ask for “college” credentials and didn’t need to—the pair were plenty bright and articulate. Most critically, they knew how to manipulate clunky furniture through narrow doorways and around tricky corners. Their proficient, efficient efforts reminded me of my first “adventure in moving.”

When I was between first and second grade, my parents let me ride with “Pete” aboard a United Van Lines semi traveling from Minneapolis to New Jersey. My grandfather, a founder and board member of UVL, operated one of its agents, Geo. B. Holman & Co., Inc., based in Rutherford and Hackensack, New Jersey. “Pete” had worked for my grandpa for many years and was a highly trusted driver. That I would be fine was an easy assumption by each of the applicable grown-ups—my parents in Minnesota, my grandparents in New Jersey, and Pete over the many miles in between.

Neither before nor since that trip have I had so much fun on the open road. Pete and I got along famously. He bantered with me cheerfully, and for dinner each night, he let me order whatever I wanted, which was always the same: a hamburger, French fries, and a chocolate malt.

Riding high in Pete’s late model Mack cab, I was on cloud nine the entire distance. The scenery captivated my attention, and the growling, vibrating engine under our seats produced a feeling of power and importance. But then . . .

Late one evening while Pete was refueling at a truck stop somewhere in Ohio, I climbed up into the sleeping loft of the cab and fell fast asleep. I awoke just as Pete was pulling back into the truck stop we’d left 10 or 20 minutes before.

It turned out that after refueling, Pete had driven off—not noticing that I was no longer in the passenger’s seat. Miles down the turnpike, he realized I was “missing.” Scared out of his wits, he drove straight back to the truck stop, hoping to hell he’d find me there. You can imagine Pete’s relief when he heard my sleepy voice ask from the sleeping loft, “Why are we still here?”

“Ya grampa woidn’t bothah firin’ me,” Pete said as we re-entered the turnpike. “He’d just plain kill me if I lost ya on the way to New Joisey!”

© 2019 Eric Nilsson