“Born to Lug” and lug again
March 2, 2010
A beast of burden is supposedly an animal, such as a donkey, ox or elephant, used for transporting loads or ding other heavy work that people do not want to do. Dad is another word often used to describe such a hapless creature, and mom or human male can fit as well. White many women tote their share; it is men who were born to lug.
My career as a pack animal must have been carved in stone by a cannibal witch doctor the day I was born Sucker may have been carved next to it, and that has often had a great deal to do with the numerous lugging chores I have performed in my day.
There have been times that I feared some sneak had tattooed “Mo’s Movin and Groovin” on my forehead while I slept. I have lost track of the times I have been recruited to help with a “minor” move. Minor mean anything under three boxcars worth of stuff, and nine times out of ten, over half the stuff will remain boxed, forgotten and unused for years.
Any forthcoming move should prompt an all-out yard-sale, resorting to “by the box” prices at the end. Every ten pounds you sell is one less liver quiver or muscle wrenching for one of your human mules.
“Heeeee haaaaaw!” Just thinking about a move is enough to make me bray. It also gives me a twinge in my delicate back, or maybe that is still a carryover from my last lugfest. As has often been the case since he got out of high school, my youngest son was involved.
I know it is not a cardinal rule, but I have noticed that when it is time to move, a daughter is far more apt to have and utilize friends with trucks. They may not do it all the time, for young friends with trucks are often clumsy and impatient when it comes to the art of lugging. Things have a bad habit of getting scarred, dinged and dropped, which dampens future enthusiasm to use the greenhorn luggers.
A dad, however, has usually been slowed down by all the damage done by his previous toting escapades. He also realizes that as miserable as being a beast of burden can be, there is a pretty good chance he is only performing the duties in a different locale on the day of the move. if at home, the honey-doo list might have him some different version of the lug-waltz, so he refrains from impatience.
Still, no lugging chore at home is a downright painful and wretched as moving someone’s belongings from Point A to Point B. Especially when the movee is my son.
“Did you get plenty of boxes?” he was asked a few days before his recent move.
“Of course!” he replied, “I ain’t no dummy.”
The problem was many of the boxes were big enough to hide Oprah in. The other problem, even the liftable boxes were mostly in need of filling. The last major problem, alas, was unfixable; a third-floor apartment only adds to the suffering the mules would endure on a lower floor. Luckily, the new place was ground floor.
So, with three he-mules, a she-mule, three trucks and the mulee movee all working their buns off, anther relocation was complete. I figure I will have to sacrifice a goat to guarantee there won’t be another move next year.
I like goats too, but I think I like my back better.