Game Day

On Thursday, July 2nd everything started going to hell. We learned that escrow would not close on time the next day. The bank started giving me all kinds of problems and asking for things that could have been handled weeks earlier. After heading to Sac City to get an extension on the septic system upgrade we would now have to do because we didn’t close by June 30^th, we stopped for lunch. After lunch I phoned the equipment rental company to confirm the forklift delivery for the next day. We needed the forklift in order to unload our pallets from the semi. Josh had scheduled it in advance, but it never hurts to check in. I was shocked to hear a lecture from the rental guy about how he had been trying to call us for days and we had never “confirmed.” At this point, and given the Fourth of July holiday, he didn’t think he could get the equipment to us. Luckily, we got our rental and even received it early. Unluckily, it wasn’t a forklift at all – it was a monstrosity. If you’ve never seen a Gradall boom lift let me explain it to you. I don’t use the term “friggin’ massive” often, but the thing was friggin’ massive. There was no way this ogre would drive into the machine shed where we needed to store our pallets.

Oh yes, the machine shed. This was our planned site of Josh’s metalworking shop, where we both remembered concrete floors. Only…there weren’t concrete floors – there was just mud. Not only would the “forklift” not fit, we couldn’t use the pallet jack to move anything around. After walking the property and giving it some thought, Josh came up with Plan B. Of course giving it some thought was harder than usual, as he had no nicotine to help concentrate – he had given up cigarettes about ten days prior. Okay: we would use the boom lift because it was all we had. We would put everything in one of the barns because it had concrete floors. Unfortunately, those floors were covered with a goopy layer of decaying animal feces.

Friday morning we woke up early. Josh started shoveling shit out of the barn around 6:30 AM. I went into Denison to handle some banking-insurance-errand nonsense. Josh shoveled continuously for at least six hours using a trashcan on wheels as a make-shift wheelbarrow (truly inefficient but no other options). Our semi truck arrived five hours late, around 3:30 or 4:00 in the afternoon. Arriving right before the semi was a great deal of uninvited rain. I had been taking a long overdue nap in the trailer to stay out of the rain. When the truck arrived, Josh came to get me for some help. I put on a jacket that looked waterproof but did not withstand five minutes of Iowa downpour. I jogged the long, muddy drive up to the road where the semi was parked. Out of breath and wet. To my dismay I saw the first pallet had tipped over and there were shop materials spread around everywhere. Josh started handing me all kinds of metal pieces bit by bit and I loaded them in his ’62 Ford Econoline van, including an engine hoist completely disassembled into more heavy pieces than I thought possible. Out of breath, wet, greasy.

From there I have some trauma-induced mental haze. Josh started unloading the pallets in a manner far less organized than we had planned, and extending the boom deep into the barn to set them down. Up the muddy hill, down the muddy hill. I think I was carrying materials down piece by piece, and then running back up with various supplies we needed like a broom and dustpan to sweep up dozens of nuts and bolts that had spilled inside the truck. In turns out the driver had spaced the pallets too far apart, and many more had spilled. This was exacerbated by the fact that he went the northern route – through THE ROCKIES, which only a first-time trucker would even consider. This wreckage was impossible to remove with the boom lift’s forks. My jeans and t-shirt were now completely soaked through and clinging to my skin. It was a warm Iowa rain and even a light jacket felt stifling when doing manual labor.

At some point Jason, who owned the property before us, came home from farming. He immediately started up his tractor which had forks. He started hauling pallets with Josh, up and down the wet, muddy lane into the dark, dank barn. Because the pallets had become unsteady in the truck, I watched at least four loads of our belongings fall off the equipment and crash into bits. I had no choice but to keep going – picking up pieces of my broken life out of the mud. Thanks to Jason’s help, this cycle only went on for about five hours.

On autopilot, I kept working and helping. I didn’t stop when I saw my bookshelf smashed flat or my TV table sliding down into a ditch. I persevered when my grandmother’s curio cabinet shattered – wood, glass, all of it. I kept going when I saw the box labeled “Rachel’s work clothes” sitting in the rain and longed for my Nordstrom’s jackets and Banana Republic pants. Why did I buy Anthropologie dresses for $200 each if this was going to happen? I held it together. I worked. I guided Jason, who couldn’t see his tractor forks. I did whatever Josh asked, until the mattress incident that put me over the proverbial edge.

When the last pallet was unloaded out on our gravel road, we finally said farewell (and thought, good riddance) to the truck driver, Ron. There was still an ungodly amount of work to be done, but at least we weren’t racing the clock to avoid overtime charges. My beautiful Sealy Posturepedic Diamond SE Plush Pillowtop mattress was leaning next to the truck, held up by a small welding tank cart. It looked like a corner was propped up by the truck, so I went to hold it while the driver took off. Josh said, “It’s clear, it’s okay” and I backed off. It wasn’t okay.

As the truck pulled away down the gravel road, my warm cozy piece of home dragged along with it. A corner of the fitted sheet was hooked onto the outside of the truck, and the mattress was speeding away from me. I started jogging, running, sprinting after the truck. I was jumping in the air and waving my arms above my head. I screamed at the top of my lungs, “STOP! STOP! RON, THE MATTRESS! ROOOOOOOON! STOOOOOP!” for about a quarter of a mile. I went left and then right so maybe he would see me in one of the mirrors. Just when I thought all was lost, he slowed to a stop. By this time Josh was driving up the hill in his van to help. I unhooked my mattress, held onto it, and waved Ron away.

When Josh got to the top and asked what happened, I said, “Can I cry? Can I cry now?” With his approving “yes,” I sobbed and sobbed as the rain fell on my face. I let it all out, and then got back to work. Jason and his wife Kelli helped us for another hour or two until everything was in the stinky, leaky barn. Out of breath, wet, greasy, sore, exhausted, devastated.

When all was “well,” Jason and Kelli took us to our previously planned night out at the Country Pumpkin bar in Boyer (pronounced BOO-yer, go figure). Once I walked into the Pumpkin with our new friends, I was calmed by the packed crowd of farmers and Sweet Home Alabama blaring from the juke box. Chicken wings and Jim Beam cured all. We swapped two sides of the same stories that our shared Realtor had told us separately. The night was topped off with an unbelievable illegal fireworks show, all fired off about three feet from a cornfield. This was Iowa. This was my new life.

Copyright Rachel Burns 2009