Reflections on the Eighth Week of Spring – Moving In

    Last Sunday morning, the alarm clock flashed 4:17, and gravel crunched in the driveway.

    I jumped out of bed and ran down the hall.

    Charlie, with a bulging backpack hanging from each shoulder, stepped through the front door. He chuckled, set down the bags, and gave me a hug. The opening greeting of the phone call he’d made two and a half weeks earlier, “You’re getting a new roommate,” had come true. After years of applying for UPS transfers which would move him closer to his aging parents, Charlie landed the job of preload supervisor at the package center in Seneca, Pennsylvania, twenty-seven miles from Wells Wood.

    During the week, he adjusted to the move, and I, because nothing is more obnoxious than helicopter parenting a forty-three year old man, tried to curb overwhelming urges to help.

    The first challenge came later that Sunday morning when Spence and I settled in the great room to write blogs. Charlie carried in a load from his packed Chevy Cruze.

    I paused key tapping. “Do you want help unloading?”

    “No, no, keep writing.” He lugged crates of books to the guest room, boxes of dishes to the basement, and computer equipment to the loft.

    Turning my head, I looked up. “You’re welcome to put anything you want on top of my bookcase. I cleared it for you.”

    “He’ll manage, Janet,” Spence said petting George. “Leave the boy alone.”

    “Everything’s fine, Mom.”

    Oops. Helicopter. I gritted my teeth, read through the postmistress blog for the twenty-eighth time, and remained seated despite sounds of furniture re-arranging in the guest room.

    Next, Charlie studied Google Maps for a trial run of the winding road route to the UPS package center before he had to drive it in country dark. Rather than offering help, I said, “If you don’t mind company, I’d like to see where you’ll be working. But I can go another time if you’d rather go alone.”

    He chuckled. “You’re welcome to come.”

    “Great!” I dashed to the bedroom for my camera. “Does UPS have rules against taking pictures of their buildings?”

    More chuckling. “Not on the outside.”

    After I turned into Cranberry Mall rather than onto Route 257 and drove all the way through Seneca plus the four extra miles to Oil City, I backtracked, located Quaker Drive, and rounded the bend.

    Charlie said, “There it is.”

    I slowed and glanced at the nondescript industrial buildings on either side of me. “Where?”

    Charlie pointed further down the street. “By the UPS trucks. It’s tiny.”

    After photographing the package center from several angles, we got back in the car for the ride home. I paused at each turning so that Charlie could get his bearings. Finding Georgetown Road wasn’t easy so, helicopter revved and whirring, I said, “If you miss this turn, Route 62 will take you into Sandy Lake, and you know your way home from there.” Worth the slip. The first day he missed that turn, drove the extra miles, but got home safely.

    Adjusting for sleep came third. Because Charlie worked from approximately 3:30 a.m. to 9:30 a.m., UPSers work till the job is finished rather than to a set time, he slept from 3:30 p.m. to midnight or so. Remembering how hard I’d worked to get him to sleep when he was a baby, I’d tiptoe past his door. My cheeks ached from grinning at his man snores.

    At night, I’d wake for the quiet click of his door opening but not for any sounds emanating from the meal prep or ablutions he made before heading to work.

    During the two hours together after I got back from swimming laps and before he’d drop off to sleep. I peppered him with questions.

    “Do you like the new job?”

    He shrugged. “It’s only been one day.”

    “Do you have a guard shack? Did you get a key?”

    “No guard, and there’s a key pad. I punch in the code.”

    “You said you helped another new worker load his trucks. How do you know where to put the packages?”

    Charlie fetched an empty UPS box. “See this small label? LEFT indicates where the box goes on the conveyor belt, 17A tells you which truck, and 7098 means the box goes on the 7000 shelf.”

    “Do they treat you with respect?”

    More shrugs. “I guess so. Everyone’s busy doing their job. One did tell me, ‘There’s nothing to do around here–no excitement.’” Charlie rubbed my arm and smiled. “I told him I didn’t move for excitement.”

    No excitement for a working man, perhaps. But coming home from swimming laps to find Charlie washing dishes, glancing up from the computer to catch Charlie waving at me, and discovering a hot pot of tea Charlie set under the cozy is excitement for an aging parent.

    This Sunday morning, I pressed the button to light the face on my alarm clock, and 5:08 flashed at me. I ambled to the great room, swallowed my Fosamax pill, and chatted with Spence and Charlie. When I put my empty water cup on the counter, the button on the oven flashed red and the temperature gauge pointed to warm. Curious, I peaked inside and discovered raw bacon on a tray. “Spence, did you intend to cook the bacon on ‘warm’?”

    To me he said, “No, I wanted 450º.”

    To Charlie he said, “She’s a helicopter wife, but I need that.”