A real man moves out

There are many definitions of “a real man”. Here’s one – a real man doesn’t ask for help. Because he doesn’t need it, of course. And it’s not restricted to directions either. I’m not sure whether it’s something in the sexual makeup, or perhaps it’s anthropological, tied up in the pride and expectations of being provider and protector over the ages.

Whatever the reason, I proved my manhood in this very way a few weeks back at the end of July – the weekend the container to transport our household things to Italy was delivered for loading. “Piece of cake,” says me, “except for the marble dining room table” (a reluctant admission). So I co-opted the help of a couple of Mexicans and our friend Don Michael to load it into the container. I also took Don’s advice by getting the container backed up as close to our front porch as possible, and then building with Don’s help (i.e. his design, his tools, his materials) a ramp from the porch directly into the container.

After the table was loaded and the ramp built: “Piece of cake,” I say, and get down to the business of loading. In near-record (summer) temperatures. In a metal container exposed to the full might of the sun, all day. You might say I got a fairly good idea of how things are in Hades – I don’t think I’ve ever sweated quite so much for quite so long without a letup. Every last inch of my thick cotton shorts was drenched – wring-out wet through - and I even recoiled at my own BO when I allowed myself to be distracted enough to notice.

After two 12-hour days of back-straining, flood-level perspiration, I was faced with a deadline – get everything out of the house by Sunday 2pm so the cleaners could come before the new owners moved in the next day.

With some heavy and very irregularly-shaped (read hard-to-pack) stuff still left to load, I felt pressure. How did I handle it? In a very manly way, naturally. I shunned the offers of a friend’s help, and did it all myself. I hauled my aching body out of bed at 6 am, and worked through until 7:30pm without a break, and without eating. I wasn’t done at Sunday 2pm, so had to turn the cleaners away. On Sunday night I was a broken man. I stayed broken for about 6 days. I’m wondering if I learned anything from this episode.

I was very sad to leave the house. Two particularly poignant moments brought it all crashing home, reducing my emotional state to the same level as my physical state. First, walking into Julius’ room, empty save for the rainbow painted by Maria on the wall, birds flying off into the distance, and the memories came flooding in. We arrived in Chapel Hill (North Carolina) when Julius was 6, and spent 4 of his formative years here – he scored his first goal, broke his arm, played in his first concert, discovered Asterix and wild boar, …. and developed a very tight relationship with his old man.

Later, after wiping away the tears, I went to get a drink of water at the kitchen sink, and there, on the other side of the window where the feeder used to be, hovered one of our resident hummingbirds. When she saw me, she flew a little closer, as if asking for me to put it back. When she saw I wasn’t going to, she turned and whizzed off to her perch on one of the high branches of the dogwood next to the deck, looking back down at me, just in case…

It was as much as I could take. I slaked down the water, picked up the last of my belongings, took my broken body and my precious memories, and walked out of the house …