Move from Utah to Maine, Day 1–House is cleaned, children are dense, Wyoming is long

Drive from Utah to Maine, Day 1

(Current location, Cheyenne, Wyoming. “No, kids—not Shee-YEE-NEE. I don’t care how you sound it out.”)

Woke up at 3:30 am in Hyrum Utah, because who can sleep when there’s 5 hours of cleaning to do, finishing packing two vans and a moving truck, and an 8-hour drive to Wyoming.

Stared at the dark ceiling until it was the late hour of 5:30 am when I took my hour-long Farewell Tour: I walked my normal route around my neighborhood saying quiet goodbyes and thank-yous to neighbors and friends and watching the coming sun slowly light up the Wellsvilles Mountains. I’ve pretty much run out of tears to shed about leaving where I finally thought we’d settle forever. Today I was just grateful for the time.

Spent the next 5 hours cleaning and cleaning (I’ll have nightmares tonight that I’m still not done), and saying goodbye to friends who dropped by, even though I was hoping for a French Exit, as my mother used to call it. “Sneak away when no one’s looking, and if someone does see you, say only ‘Au revoir’—never say ‘Good-bye’. That’s too final.” Agreed. Still, people insist on being nice and bringing us travel treats and hugs, dang them.

11:45 am took my last stroll through the house where we lived for nine years, where I felt the most at home of any home of the eight we’ve had over 29 years. I said goodbye, it didn’t say anything back (fortunately, but I was pretty tired so I wouldn’t have been surprised).

Took off at noon, each vehicle with a walkie-talkie and naming our vehicles. The moving truck my husband is driving is Jeremy, the minivan where my 20-year-old and 18-year-old drive is Hammond, and I in the 15-pax van am driving is Captain Slow. I wanted to change those designations after we discovered Penske truck rental had helpfully put a 70 mph limiter on the moving truck, and the 80 mph signs taunted us throughout Wyoming.

Less than an hour from home, got a text from my neighbor sad that she missed saying goodbye (French Exit was better—she always gets me crying). I handed the phone to my 17-year-old co-pilot. “Text her back! Tell her I’m sorry too, and that—”

17: “I’ve never texted before in my life, and I’m not about to start now.”

Something you should know about this boy: he’s a 67-year-old curmudgeon trapped in a teenager’s body. He hates kids on the lawn.

17: “Why don’t you call her like people should?”

Me: “This canyon’s dangerous and reception is spotty. Text her back!”

17: “It’s not like either of you is dying. You’ll see her again, if not now that in the eternities.” [eye-roll]

I want a different co-pilot. This one’s ridiculously sensible.

His 9-year-old sister in the bench behind us is bored:

9: Think of a word–

17: Apple.

9: No, let’s play hangman, and you think of a word–

17: Apple.

9: [exasperated sigh] Mom, think of a word.

Me: Ok, it’s got 5 letters. (17 is smirking already)

9: Is there an a?

Me: Yep, first letter.

9: Is there an e?

Me: Last one.

9: [after trying about seven other letters] Is there a p?

Me: Two of them.

9: [long pause] Wait, is it apple?

Hangman takes a long time in our car.

Overheard on our radios as we drove:

“Dad, how far until our dinner stop?”

“Your brother [age 13] say it’s one minute ten seconds away, but the rest of the world would read the tablet as ‘One hour, ten minutes.’”

Our 13-year-old has never been away from a working computer this long in his life. Everything is going to drag for him.

Then: “Dad, those are pronghorns, right?”

“Do they look like cows?”

“Just making sure.”

Everyone has a treat bag to last them for the six days it’ll take to travel. May have to restock by Tuesday afternoon.

Everything in Wyoming is named after butts. Buttes. Whatever. Only 50 miles into the drive I realized I’d be staring at my husband’s yellow Penske butt truck for the next six days. Going to haunt my nightmares along with the worry there’s another level to the house I forgot to clean.

I’ve stared out at the wide vistas many times, taking it all in because I won’t have so many views soon.

I snerk at those on the coasts who lament the country’s too crowded. They never driven through Wyoming. We’ll still be driving through it tomorrow. Since we have many more states to go, and still are only one state away from where we left, it’s not looking to promising. Then I remember the states get smaller as we go east.

The kids romped at the pool at the motel where we landed at 8:30 pm, now everyone’s crashing, as am I. I took pictures—blurry, sideways pictures with my compact camera (yes, I still have one) as I drove because 17 also doesn’t do pictures (I REALLY need a new copilot), but I’m too weary to post any tonight. I took a Benadryl to help me sleep (because I cannot sleep in motels, either). Should be kicking in about ten minutes from now . . . hence the rambling, blobby nature of this.

Picture this, since it will be clearer than my photos: Wyoming is long and wide and filled with scrubby brush. There’s a yellow truck in front of me. Pretty much it.

Tomorrow we will, God willing, make it to Iowa with our two 16-year-old vans, one truck, and six children and two parents. I’m letting 17 get some driving practice in the minivan with his 20-year-old brother on the long straightaways, and I’m looking for a new copilot. My 18-year-old daughter is a genius at texting, even though after a year of college she’s still not sure what a pronghorn looks like or how to pronounce Cheyenne.