The moving truck pulled up earlier than expected. I felt a jolt of adrenaline and dread, knowing it was really happening. This year would be our 21st, and last year, living in Hinsdale.
Three big moving guys descended on our home. They were nice but no nonsense as they inventoried our things. They slapped down reams of packing paper and got to work. I cringed as they picked up our special things - crystal from my mother-in-law, Christmas decorations passed down and collected, artwork from our walls, and toys we couldn't let go, like the full gang of little cars from the "Cars" movie and Lincoln Logs in a special box made by my grandfather.
I told the moving guys which art to pack, saying, "Please be careful with that one - our friend painted it for us as a wedding gift." Or, "My mother painted that; it's coming with us."
The wedding gift painted by our friend, Caroline, is a small oil painting of cherries. No one would call it cute - it's beautiful - the luscious reds and blues and contours of the cherries' skin. The painting has graced our foyer all these years, and many have admired it.
After I voiced my earnest art packing instructions, one of the men piled up all the art into a Jenga-like tower on the not very clean kitchen counter. The cherry painting teetered on top. I choked up as I watched the man crumple a bunch of paper around our cherries and secure it with a jerk and loud rip of the packing tape. I felt like someone had punched me or my grandma or both of us. I was sure the painting was ruined.
I retreated to the last remaining piece of furniture in our house and cried a bit. I didn't realize how sentimental I would be about our things - how irreplaceable they would seem, how much they would turn into a kind of reliable, cozy blanket imbued with love from family and friends. Maybe that cherry painting was always a symbol of our hope for a sweet life. The friend who painted it, and all of the friends from Hinsdale who became like family, are also wrapped up in those cherries, in the walls of our home and all of the memories we made there.
I guess I've been wondering if the sweet life we've had so far hinges upon Hinsdale or if it can be carefully packed up and carried along with us to another location in the mountains? Time will tell. A good first sign is that our cherry painting made it intact. It's safely hung on a wall by the door of our new home; I can see it as I come and go, meeting new neighbors and walking along streets that are becoming familiar.
We'll return to Chicago often, we've promised our friends. In the meantime, here's a toast to Hinsdale, our midwestern hometown - to the dear friends we raised our kids alongside, the excellent neighbors who dotted our daily routines, to our faithful church community, the store owners, teachers and doctors who helped us through the years, and to the new family beginning their own sweet life in the house we called home. Cheers to you all - and to finding the cherries in life.
- Carol Wittemann, recently of Hinsdale, is a former contributing columnist. Readers can email her at [email protected].
