CONTINUED FROM PART 15 (scroll back a few posts - you’ll find it :-) -

Moving Day

I have been to the site several times, in the past three weeks, wondering exactly where I would like the house placed. As if I were hanging a picture on a wall … no, a little to the left … ummm, down just a little … yes, there, right there.

Randy stops the truck on the driveway and gets out to survey the last, trickiest part. Johanna and I park our vehicles and join him. Fred jumps out and walks over to the spectators. His job is done, he can now enjoy the finale from the sidelines. Randy asks me where I want my Tiny Home positioned. I walk with him to the top of the slight rise in the land and do my best to explain the exact picture I have in my head. He nods, spits to the side, sucks on his front teeth, and his eyes take in the whole scene. Without a word, he re-adjusts his hat, turns and walks back to his truck.

I look now through different eyes at the site I have chosen. A small plateau about 80 feet from the driveway, with a short, gentle slope to get to it. On the other side though, the land drops away more steeply. I look from the house sitting innocently on the driveway back to the grassy site. The plateau hadn’t looked so small until I saw the house in relationship to it. It will work, but just barely. I realize this will take some careful manipulation by the driver. And did I mention the soaking, wet ground is as slippery as ice hidden by a thin layer of snow.

Randy gets back into the truck and puts it in gear. Seven of us stand solemnly nearby, you could light up a house with the tension crackling between us. We watch as he carefully pulls the house onto the uneven, overgrown grass. So overgrown that at first, he doesn’t notice the large dip in the land that first the left, front wheel of the house then the left, rear wheel fall into. Hale Maluhia lurches and tilts dangerously in our direction. A loud, collective gasp goes up from the gathered crowd. Johanna, the builder, standing in the front, lunges forward with both arms outstretched. Fred standing next to her grabs her and pulls her back. She looks at us all, speechless, her eyes wild and momentarily unseeing. I say; “What? Were you gonna catch it if it fell?” Then we all laugh nervously, shake it off, and turn back. We’re not done yet.

Randy slowly creeps forward, looking at me for approval. Dang, it isn’t at exactly the angle I had hoped, maybe if he pulls forward just a little more – I motion with my hand. The truck has crested the plateau and is now heading down on the backside of the site. Suddenly it starts sliding in the mud, pulling the house with it. The whole rig starts to jackknife. SHIT!

Randy hits the brakes. He manages to stop the forward momentum, but it’s too late, the house is tilting precariously downhill with the truck at a 30 degree angle to it. Randy gets out of the cab, tips his hat back, and shakes his head from side-to-side as he takes in the near calamity. He nods his head at Johanna who, with Fred, is already walking over to confer with him. I stay with the spectators. A coward. This is way above my pay grade.

After a few minutes of consultation, Johanna goes to her truck, starts the engine and backs it up behind the house. Fred produces a thick rope from her truck bed and attaches the other end of the house to Johanna’s truck. Randy and Johanna then work together, with her pulling and him reversing. By some miracle, they are able to move the house back ten feet, just far enough that it is now on even ground.

They both get out of their vehicles and look at me hopefully. Well, it isn’t exactly where I had envisioned it, but I can see now that this is a situation where reality rules. I smile, give a thumbs up and say “Perfect!!!” I jump a little as the spectators standing behind me, that I had forgotten about, clap and cheer.

Jean Luc, part owner of the Ranch, appears by my side as I stand admiring my new home – basking for a few moments in the culmination of my dream. His brow furrows, and in his charming, french accent says, “Perhaps one day you could re-paint it green.”

“What?” I say.

“The house, you could repaint it green.”

“It’s brand new Jean Luc, and besides, it is green.” I say, laughing at this ludicrous, poorly-timed discussion.

“No, zat ees not green,” he says with conviction. I shake my head and can only laugh at his insensitivity.

“Oh my god,” I say with a little laugh. “Well it’s not grass green, it’s a very pale green, but it’s still green,” I insist. He shakes his head stubbornly. I’m flabbergasted at his clueless timing and I also suspect this is not the last I will hear of this.