Welcome Home, Mamie and Papa

Earlier this year, I wrote about my dad retiring from the career that had taken them so far from us. A couple of months later, they started getting the itch. Not the “why are we here in life” itch, but the serious, practical itch: why are we in Tennessee when all of our children and grandchildren are in the Midwest?

Because as beautiful as Tennessee is, warm weather doesn’t bring soccer games to your doorstep. It doesn’t bring hugs, sloppy kisses, or the joy of birthdays, concerts, or holidays. They were tired of missing out.

So last week, my parents said goodbye to the South, packed up everything they owned, and moved back home to Illinois. Their new home is smaller by choice—they wanted to downsize—but I can’t help appreciating the sacrifice they’re making to be closer to family.

The day before they moved in, my mom and I were at the house alone, cleaning in preparation for the movers. The sun poured through the windows, and we flitted from room to room, talking and laughing. At one point, my mom made lunch for the two of us: roast beef sandwiches, pickles, and chips. We sat in lawn chairs eating sandwiches that have never tasted better. The sunny kitchen, the sandwiches, and the time alone with my mom—I’ll remember that forever.

My mom and I made sandwiches for the movers for lunch and they told us over and over how much they appreciated it. On the way out the door, the one man said, “rarely does someone provide us lunch, so thank you so much” Feed your movers, friends.

Moving isn’t pretty. It smells like cardboard, sharpie markers, paper, and despair.

It dawned on me that my parents did this all alone the last two moves because we were far away. Then I also realized that my mom did most of the unpacking by herself because my dad was still working. The first time they moved, she was doing it all alone while taking care of her 100-year-old mother, and nursing some massive homesickness and heartache. It made me appreciate her even more than I already do.

Later that night, by the light of a campfire lantern, my mom, Ella, and I popped bubble wrap together—my mom loves it, and it must be genetic because now Ella does too. I had to grab my phone to document it.