“Ouch!”

I touch the sun-heated metal on the snow shovels stacked in the driveway.

Who would have thought? A burn from a snow shovel? Is it an omen?

It’s moving day during an Iowa summer. No time for whining. Get those dishes packed into boxes. Carry that massive table outside. Bend and curve the dining hutch out the too-small door. Get to work, Weeg.

Okay, I have done a few moves in my day. And moving is certainly one measure of my fitness level, my annoying good cheer, and how many days until my wife files for divorce.

It’s a simple measurement, really, I am either the largest pumpkin at the Iowa State Fair . . .

.  . . or the stuff that gets carried away in a cart at the end of the day.

I’m not too worried. Heck, I’ve moved before. This isn’t my first U-Haul.

More than a few years ago, a friend and I filled a giant truck in the rain in Indianola only to discover that the tires were stuck deep in the mud while my pregnant wife and his pregnant wife sat on the front porch and provided helpful encouragement.

And we were encouraged. Soon we had the truck out and headed down the road to our new home.

A half dozen years later, I moved with my two-year-old (in a buckled carseat, I swear!). She magically opened the backseat door at the corner of Merle Hay Road and Urbandale Avenue and let the two cats out. Disaster.

And then she tumbled out. Oh no!

And then passerbys helpfully yelled at me for being a rotten dad. Just what I needed.

But, trust me, I got everyone back in the car and safely home before I was sent to the slammer. Another successful move.

And I’m not even counting all the moves of my adult kids and their significant others — who I helped many more times than good parenting required. I’m sure it’s true that I single-handedly ushered in a narcissistic generation when I moved kids out of our home, moved kids back into our home, moved kids out, and then moved them back in for another round.

Yup, I am one heck of a mover.

And I am moving today.

But I am old. And I am tired. And perhaps I should be drinking beer under a tent on the Grand Concourse with the other old men. This is going to be a chasing-youth disaster.

But the die has been cast.

So I get up early and swallow a few anticipatory ibuprofen. I put sunscreen on my nose hoping my rosacea won’t scare small children and puppies. I dress in battered shorts and a Raygun t-shirt that says “It’s rainbow time, bitch.” I flex my fingers.

I’m ready.

My middle son and I lurch out of the parking lot of the U-Haul store with a large truck, our heads snapping forwards and back as the automatic shifting bounces my already muddled brains. And we’re off.

“I know that I might not really be up for this,” I tell my son as I drive along. “It’s been more than a few years since I last moved anyone.”

My son looks grim.

“But our neighbor is going to help. We got this,” I say with a hollow cheer.

My son just shakes his head, turns away from me, and takes a long draw on his vape.

The neighbor and my son help with the heavy lifting. My wife and I sweat through our shirts. And the house is emptied. Eight hours later.

Success.

I am euphoric. I didn’t die. The job is done. We are moved out.

My son and I sit high in the truck and cruise down the road. Team Weeg.

Which of course reminds me of when I was a young boy and sat high in a U-haul with my thirty-something dad and my younger brother moving from Michigan to Iowa. After the truck was unloaded, we all laid back against the front porch eating watermelon that we cracked open on the edge of the step. And we spat watermelon seeds for distance. We were giants.

“That was a good time,” I tell my own son as we are driving back to the U-haul store.

Then . . . I turn too tight, smack the curb, drive over some landscaping, and crash back on the road.

We gasp.

We stop.

We slowly breath.

“I won’t tell anyone,” says my son generously.

Too late . . . the State Fair judges point to the manure cart.

Really?

Which is why I am now at the big slide.

Duh. I was just in the wrong competition. I’m a great slider from way back.

Let me tell you about that time I . . .

Joe