Savannah was moving.

“What weekend?” I asked, looking for my Day-Timer. She would like my help.

When family and friends move out, we show up at the appointed time with empty vans and cargo spaces and trunks to commute and furniture from the old place to the new.

The only time we moan about this – OK, we moan every time, but we only consider mutiny when the move is planned during the warmer months. (Better to have a pool in the new Savannah location.)

Grumbling aside, it can be fun to be part of a big movement. There is a camaraderie that comes from swearing in unison on heavy furniture and using your Tetris gaming skills to pack the most boxes in the back seats.

My specialty is the removal of clothes. I put the clothes from the closets in big trash bags, tighten the drawstrings around the hangers and put them in the back of my SUV, so we can hang them up again.

All we expect from our hard work is pizza and cold beer. The people who help you move love you. A parcel.

It’s been 23 years since I last moved from a one-bedroom upstairs apartment in an old house on Mill Avenue to a house less than a mile away.

It had a queen-size bed, a tank-sized dresser, and rickety wooden stairs, so for the first time I hired professional movers. At 32, I saw this as a marker of real adulthood.

Kat and Scott Henderson hired movers when they moved from Tempe to Tucson in 2016.

Savannah is the half-sister of my son Sawyer. She is 28 years old and is completing her first year of full-time employment as a nurse. His partner, Martín, recently graduated from ASU with a Masters in Business Administration and starts his new job in July.

I opened my Day-Timer, complaining about how hot it was going to be. But before I could ask for a pool and a cold beer, Savannah stopped me:

“We hired movers.”

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