< PREVIOUS ]   [ 1989 Index ]   [ Ed Quillen HOME ]   [ SEARCH ]   [ NEXT >


You gotta move

Published 14-Jun-1989 in the Denver Post
Copyright ©1989 by Ed Quillen. All rights reserved.

Just a fortnight ago, chaos reigned at the metro end of this connection. The Denver Post was in the midst of a move uptown to hygienic new quarters which lack press rumble, ink stains, paste pots, cigar smoke and other bygone features of newspaper offices.

Not that I've seen the new offices, but I read all about the transfer: 1,000 employees, 270 computer terminals, 60,000 file folders, miles and miles of cable.

This week, it's my turn: a family of four, six computers, 60,000 stuffed animals that the girls have that they insist must be moved, and miles of cable to string before I sleep. After 11 years in a 1,200-square-foot house, we're moving about three blocks to 2,000 square feet of Victorian charm.

Its 10-foot ceilings are impressive, and I suspect next winter's gas bills will be even more impressive. We have a perfect Salida kitchen -- next to the microwave sits a wood-burning cast-iron cookstove. We picked one room for an office, primarily because it appeared to have lots of outlets, few of which worked, and a telephone jack, which was apparently just for decoration, since it wasn't connected to anything.

We got to unravel some of the house's history. I'm sure this problem is familiar to anyone who moves into an old house, but it came as a shock to us. One bedroom's wallpaper was rather hideous, and it was drooping, too.

No problem. Just strip that layer and hang some new paper, right. Sure. Fortunately Greg Truitt, the town handyman (he has a journalism degree from the University of Maryland, but he has instead done something useful with his life) happened by. He brought over a steamer, and we discovered about a dozen strata -- a century of bad taste in wallpaper -- before reaching the plaster, much of which was in need of skilled repair.

Then comes the paint. Painting is easier than it used to be, ever since I discovered that you might be able to scrimp on a lot of things and get by, but it should be a felony to sell cheap paint. Good paint covers and doesn't run, which makes the job go faster, and the less time I spend near brushes and rollers, the better my psyche.

Paint very probably improves one's character in another way -- it teaches patience. You mask and you paint. You wait for that coat to dry. You put on the second coat. You wait. You mask for the trim. You paint. You wait. You wait and wait and wait.

Through April and May, normally a wet time in the mountains, we received nary a drop of rain or snow. Just as soon as I threw a bunch of delicate electronic equipment in the bed of the pickup, the clouds got black and the vicious thunderstorms began. They've been going for a week now. People can blame the greenhouse effect for hot, dry weather, but I know the real reason we have nice days is that I'm not moving on those days. I want credit for breaking the drought.

Otherwise, things have gone fairly well, save for one complication which I cannot understand.

Whenever I know that friends are moving, I always arrange to be out of town or to have some utterly pressing deadline that week. I try to lie convincingly about how much I'd love to help them and how dismayed I am that the press of business makes it impossible.

So if the world were a just place, no one would be helping. Instead, people drop by all the time, day and night, explaining that they just came by to help.

Certainly I'm grateful for the offers, but I never know what to do with the help. We're just not that organized. However, any excuse to stop working and sit down and drink coffee with a friend is a good excuse.

But I suspect that justice will prevail anyway. Today is scheduled for moving the washer, dryer, piano, and other providers of business for the chiropractor. Not only will a torrential downpour descend, but everyone I know with a strong back will likely find it impossible to attend this Wednesday meeting of the Salida Piano Movers Guild.

Somehow, though, it will all get done, and I'll find time to visit the Post's new quarters and see how they managed. Probably quite well, since they didn't have any stuffed animals or peeling wallpaper.


< PREVIOUS ]   [ 1989 Index ]   [ Ed Quillen HOME ]   [ SEARCH ]   [ NEXT >