Twelve to Twenty-Four

"How long are we going to be gone?" I e-mail back to my husband after reading the message he has just sent me from work.
"Twelve to twenty-four months, depending on how long it takes to complete the project," he writes back.

That was almost six months ago, and our adventure is finally about to begin. As of today, our moving truck has pulled away from our little farmhouse in the middle of a cornfield, and we are currently homeless, squatting in my in-laws' house while they are on vacation this week. If I were to meet anyone new this week, they would have definite reservations about continuing to get to know me. I am a rollercoaster of emotions from sad and sentimental to resigned and ready to get things going already. I am glad to not have to make small talk with the movers again today. Although two of the nicest men I've ever met that could lift a player piano all by themselves, I'm not in the mood to discuss what stays and what goes anymore. I don't want to hear the sound of packing tape building up cardboard boxes, and I don't want to look at our house reduced to a massive semi trailer.

No, today we lose our transportation. Our cars are being picked up in a few minutes to be loaded on a car transporter and taken to our final destination, Washington. I haven't had a change of city address in almost 12 years, so forgive me if I get a bit verklempt when I think about leaving our friends and family 1600 miles behind us.  I'll be spending one of our last days on the farm cleaning our house in preparation for the renter to move in this evening.

Twelve to twenty-four months from now, I'm sure I'll be writing a similar post about leaving the coast.  Let's hope, anyway.