Things just take longer down on the farm. I enjoyed the extra day down in Culpeper immensely, and actually got some chores done.
(Re-cycling is an important civic duty. Here is the marshaling area for Veteran’s Day dead soldiers.)
Well, as you can see, there were some other activities besides “chores,” per se. Re-cycling among them, though I expect I will have to dig a trash pit when public services are interrupted. It is thirsty work emptying all those bottles, passing through the gentle and brilliant Fall afternoon.
My favorite chore was after the trip to the Lowe’s Big Box for one was attaching the Gadsden Flag to the main sheet below Old Glory. It made me feel good., and I resolved to look for a quality Jolly Roger pennant, just in case of the need to hoist one.
So, the temperature was warm enough that I thought about shorts, briefly, though I did not don them. The Semi-trailer arrived at nine, sharp. There is something blessed about Refuge Farm. People cannot seem to find it. My cell went off with that irritating tocsin and the driver complained that I was invisible. I asked him where he was, and opened the window. Sure enough, I could hear the rumble of his diesel engine out there on the County Road, and I walked out of the house and onto the public right of way where he could see me.
I marveled at the skill required to back the rig up the hill, raking the pine boughs all along its path. He got the trailer positioned across my driveway- there was no way he was going to be able to get the truck down to the barn. That began the delicate dance.
Matt-the-Driver did not have a crew with him. He had loaded all the crap from storage in Petoskey on his own, and with two other partial loads, plied the same interstates I used to drive so often over the last five years. His tattoos were impressive- he was from Massachusetts someplace, had a delivery to VA Beach, and then last delivery in New Hampshire some place.
“Life on the road,” I said.
“Ain’t no life,” he said, laconically. The doors to the truck were not going to come open until he had his check for the $2,745.93 for cartage. I was a little woozy still from the Russian Operas we had been singing the night before, but I was game. I pulled out my checkbook and that is where the fun began.
“Can’t take a personal check,” he said. “Didn’t they tell you?”
“OK. Not a problem. Can you do a credit card.”
“Nope. Don’t have a machine. They could do it tomorrow, at Stevens Moving, but I would have to come back.”
“OK, let me check something out.”
I went to Wells Fargo on the internet and was apprised that there was an outlet at the Food Lion on the main road in town. It seemed to me that there was some sort of banking service at the WalMart as well, though God knows I hate to set foot in that chain. Several uncomfortable minutes went by as I tried to figure out how I could get my hands on cash or negotiable financial instrument at nine o’clock on a holiday Sunday morning.
I bade Matt farewell and told him I would be back in a while, and roared out of the driveway once he pulled the truck forward far enough to permit the Panzer to scrape by. I wondered how the horse trailers were going to get by on the County Road, and a mild feeling of surreal desperation swept over me. No local bank. Wouldn’t matter, since I could not get enough cash to meet the requirement based on the daily maximum withdrawal from the ATM.
I won’t bore you with the mundane details- I tried Target and they regretfully informed me they did not do money orders- although the dreaded WalMart did.
“I don’t want to go there,” I told the pert African American Lady. “I hate the place.”
“I hear that a lot,” she said, “Sorry.”
Which is how I found myself at the Returns-Adjustments-Financial Services Counter of the WalMart just up the road, on the other side of the Agricultural Supply complex with its silos and conveyer belts. The sign in front advertised Culpeper as one of the best ten small towns in America.
I decided to defer judgment on that, but I must tell you Mike that we live in an era of miracles.
I have to say that the WalMart is an alien place, and not that everyone there is undocumented. There were a couple Hispanic families, a dozen kids, a guy in a truckers cap with some batteries and an electronic game and a little girl who did not want to leave her mother, who was starting the shift.
It was precisely like visiting the DMV- a place where all the American Public must go, regardless of the ability to be someplace else.
The lady behind the counter was suspicious initially but became a co-conspirator once I explained the situation: I had a ton and a half of family crap on a semi-trailer in front of my farm, and I had to have the money. The thousand dollar limit on transactions? No problem. We will do three checks, at a net cost of .70 cents per transaction- a considerably better deal that Western Union, which would have cost hundreds in service charges.
The deed could only be done with a debit card, BTW, something I do not carry routinely but which my banker Ivan had prevailed upon me to accept in the interest of higher…interest. I had the card in the dozens in my wallet. In ten minutes I had my three official-looking pieces of paper and was on the road back to the farm.
I also found a branch of the very same Too-Big-to-Fail bank that allowed me to overdraft a grand to complete the transaction on the corner, so I have a local financial institution here. I felt like a real member of the Chamber of Commerce as I flew by in the brilliant sunshine in a powerful German SUV. Life is good.
(This is about a quarter of what came off the truck. Not shown is the refrigerator or the entire contents of Great Aunt Bly’s trousseau.)
Once I was back at the house and the paperwork was spread across the dining table in order, Matt opened the doors to the jumble in the trailer. As it turns out, he is not obligated to carry anything more than 300 feet from the truck to satisfy his contract.
I am still hobbling and weak on the leg, so this was going to be problematic. A flash of inspiration occurred while I was limping down to I used the World’s Fastest Production Pick Up truck to ferry the goods down to the barn.
Matt was flexible. I tipped him $40 bucks for his trouble, and then thought about having the Russians over for a glass of wine.
When the big semi pulled away from my drive I looked at the jumble in the office and the garage.
I gave a low whistle, and realized I am done with Michigan. That part of my life is now in my barn, and Petoskey is only a sentimental destination, not a place with loose ends. I may go back, and I will always love it, but it will only be passing through.
Copyright 2012 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com