The inside of our house would make even Anita Renfroe cry. Boxes are strewn everywhere, some full, most not. My wife and I are in a zone defense, keeping an eye on the dogs, the movers, the front and back doors, and the all important interior door clearly marked ‘No Pack Please Do Not Enter.’ Currently the score is Homeowners 0, Movers 3, Dogs 1. And we’re not even at the half. Two of the movers, working together, execute an almost perfect pick move on me and one is free and clear, breaking for the ‘No Pack’ Door. He reaches for the knob…
“Lunch is ready!”
The movers converge as one on the Mayan Temple of boxes our kitchen has become. Plates quickly loaded, they head out front to eat. My wife and I sigh and sag into each other.
One more to go.
The chime of the doorbell drags me from the comfort of her arms. It’s Damon, the foreman.
“Can we please have a few more napkins?”
I stare at him as if he has just spoken in Sanskrit.
He stares back, then at the paper plate in his hands, then at the crew sitting in the front yard. And finally back at me. “Paper napkins?”
“It’s just… you rang the doorbell.”
“My mother always told me that if you come up to a person’s home, and the door is closed, you don’t just walk in. No matter who they, or who you are. Knock or ring first. Always.”
I laugh, show him into the living room and offer up “Yeh, well, mothers usually know best.”
He cocks his head at me, smiling, and returns “Oh, I think they are pretty much always right. Just takes us kids a while to get wise enough to realise it.”
Thank you Damon. And thank you, Mom.
For being right. And for being patient with me until I realized it.