A conversation with my POD delivery driver
Loretta‘s thick Virginia accent spills from my car’s speakers. “I’m down in Manassess,” she says. “I’m trying to find your house on the GPS, but it’s not coming up.”
I’m standing outside my father-in-law’s new house in 90-degree heat and tell her to drive to the developer’s model home. “If you call me when you get there, I can guide you the rest of the way. It’s only three streets.”
Now I’m pacing around, trying to find a bit of shade to hide from the heat. The close on Joe’s house has been delayed twice, and I’m antsy to get his POD so he can move out of my house. He’s antsy too. He misses his things, and I miss having my house to myself during the day. I am thrilled, though, that he decided to move from San Francisco to be closer to us and his new house is only a ten minute walk from me.
“Tate,” I say to my son who’s sitting in the car with the windows down. “Come over here. It’s too hot to be in the car.” He joins me in the shade but eventually wanders off to explore the creek at the end of the street.
About forty minutes later, Loretta calls back and I direct her to the house. I watch as she expertly pivots the flatbed with the POD on the back and backs down the dead-end street. When she gets out, I’m surprised by her tiny stature.
“Lady,” I say. “I can’t even back into my driveway! That’s impressive.”
She laughs. “Been doing this a long time.” Loretta opens a side compartment on the flatbed and takes out a giant wrench.
I watch as she moves clips around and loosens things.
“Where you moving from?” she asks.
“I live here. I’m moving my father-in-law from San Francisco.”
She stops working. “I heard it’s real pretty there.”
“Used to be.” I frown. “It was a lot dirtier than I remember when I was back in March.”
“You born here?” she asks. “In Virginia?”
“No, I’m from Michigan.” My accent has started to shift back to what my husband refers to as my Michigan voice. I spent years trying to get rid of it and even though I’m successful at hiding it most of the time…