The Art of Moving

 

Chloe Walchesky


The life of a military brat can be greatly contrasted to the life of a railroader’s child. Growing up I have experienced many moves. Changes in scenery and dialect have cultivated the way I see the world. With every license plate change and moving truck came trees of beautiful color and foreign mountain ranges.

Shady oaks and sandy stemmed palm trees lined the suburban neighborhoods in northern California. Hot cement burnt the feet of kids racing towards the ice cream truck. An endless amount of vibrantly orange poppies never ceased to light up the freeway exits. This warm town of mine was familiar and what I identified as home. I spent my younger years in a quaint home built in the 1930s. My next door neighbor would become my best friend. Ripping the wood fence down, I created an entrance between the two backyards. Adventures were had and many mysteries solved within our small spaces. She was an only child seeking a friend and I was a rambunctious trouble maker with friendship to give.Troublemakers is an understatement when explaining our youth, we colored on walls, played with worms and broke plenty of vases. 

I was less than thrilled to discover we were moving to a new home. Thankfully, I would be in the same state, just one town over. My new bedroom was painted with a faint yellow tone that resembled sunshine peaking on an adobe wall. This house was huge in my eyes, I had stairs to slide down and a big backyard with plenty of greenery. When imaging my childhood, this home on Eureka street comes to mind first. The ancient resident black cat with emerald eyes died a few weeks before the big move. 

As a railroad kid, I had the expectation to move, but never believed I would adapt to the art of moving. The first step to moving began with acceptance. I was thrilled. Washington? The state the president lives in? Surprised to find that we were moving to the evergreen state opposed to the white house state. I closely examined the decoupage globe on my shelf. Grabbing the home phone I dialed my best friend’s number, punching (530) as fast as my fingers could type. Goodbyes were swift and sweet, full of ignorance. I would not see my best friends for years following this move. Packing was a blur of excitement, my life fit into a million brown boxes. We loaded the canary yellow truck with precision. I sipped my bubbly soda and ran into the backyard one last time. I grew up in this house, swinging from the willow trees and sliding down the never ending stairs. Passing fruit fields and roadside orange stands, we left Sutter county.

The sun dimmed to an oceanic grey cast as we made our way into Oregon. Black berry picking and memories with old grandpa Bill ricochet in my mind. The drive continued upstate, we stayed the night in a kitschy Klamath Falls hotel. In the morning, I scarfed down a giant pancake from Starvin Marvin's diner. This trip felt like a family vacation rather than a change of atmosphere. The high desert was not how I pictured Washington. Where are the evergreen trees? In this town there was an actual mall, restaurants filled with pacific northwest decor and a Starbucks around every corner. I would be in 5th grade at a new elementary school. The idea of public school frightened me, what was it like? My whole idea of school up to this point was held within the familiar walls of my private school. The teachers were like family to me, I knew all of my peers. Adaptation is arguably the most challenging aspect within a move, this would ring true for me.

Scraped knees and skateboards wandered in through the gates of this elementary school. I walked to my classroom held in a portable building. Scanning the room I realized there was not a single familiar face. The room was warm and smelt of popcorn with no clear indication of why in sight. Picking up my feet and walking to a seat was my first step to making new friends, I thought. Immense chattering arose when the teacher announced that the seats were pre arranged. Finding the “Chloe” tag on the desk, I sat down. These desks had wobbly legs that made a peculiar noise when jostled with.

Bike riding became a favorite pastime of mine, the hills allowed for an intense rollercoaster of downhills and inclines. My parents surprised me with a baby blue bike with faint pink handles and a wicker basket upfront. The winter came swiftly and I deeply anticipated a white Christmas. I had never experienced snow in large quantities before this move. My closet was suited for warmer temperatures so in the fall, it received an update. I had never needed a winter coat living in California, but this year I received one. The jacket was puffy and tri colored with pink, blue and white. My brothers and I played in the first snowfall as if it were in a movie. Following middle child stereotypes, I chucked a ball of snow towards my older brother. Rosey hands and noses entered the living room frozen to the touch. 

After a year of new experiences we decided to stake our claim in a home. The realization that Washington was most likely our forever home sank in, and we were ecstatic. Once again we packed all of our belongings from the rental home in a moving van and hit the road. The new home was a few miles uphill, the view from the top was magnificent. A million tiny lights blinked their eyes as we stared down on the sleeping city. The Columbia river curved its way into our viewpoint for us to admire. Dark bamboo floors perfectly encased the living room. An aromatic overload of fresh paint wavered in. A kid that moves will always admire the smell of fresh paint. Our backyard was small but had good hills for rolling down. This home would see me grow from a meek middle schooler to a tall Sophomore in highschool. I loved my bedroom, weekend trips to Seattle and my farmers market adventures. Downtown was a hipster's paradise, I spent hours filing through the vinyls in the underground record store. My town was small enough to feel safe, but full of growth and opportunity. I picked out my dream college, Washington state.

This dream would come to an immediate halt when the news of a move came about. I had lived in Washington for 5 years and adored it, how could this be happening? News of the move came about the same week my guinea pig died. I was used to change but this was all so unexpected and sudden. Once again I was packing everything up, this time it was bitter. I was saddened to leave my friends and beloved town. I walked around the empty house wondering what life would hold next.

Nebraska was a state that had never once grazed my mind. What was in this landlocked state? I had no virtual idea of what was going on in the state of Nebraska. We entered the flat state with no expectations of what to see. I was astonished by the lack of trees and stores. I had never lived anywhere quite like this. My new home was unlike anywhere I had resided before, I had a basement and lots of land. The porch looked like it was staged for a hallmark movie in the Midwest. It was my junior year of high school, everyone had already made lifelong friends. I walked into the school without a care in the world. My goal was to graduate and move swiftly. Quickly, I made friends to my surprise. Never would have I guessed that I would find friendship with people in this foreign town.

The adaptations to small town living included finding adventure in minute things. Longboarding down empty roads and late night slushie runs occupied my weekends. Slowly but surely I was starting to think maybe Nebraska isn't the worst place I could be right now. By senior year I had made friends that were so very precious to me. Goodbyes senior summer were the hardest ones of all, though a majority of my friends left a few stayed local with me. My next move is approaching soon, this time it will be a solo trip to a university. I am thankful for the adaptation abilities moving gave me and it is sound to say that I wouldn't trade them. I have a solid understanding towards the art of moving, and I'm ready for my new quest.

The Artists of North Platte

 

Chloe Walchesky

North Platte Nebraska is home to the largest rail yard in the world. The humble town contains more than what initially reaches the eye.

Just ajar to the bricks, lies a large building with a sign reading Prairie Arts Center. The first floor is home to galleries displaying local sculptures and paintings for sale. The positions at the arts center are mainly on a volunteer basis. You are able to find friendly volunteers from 11-4 Tuesday through Saturday. Local volunteer of five years Sheri Polk says, “North Platte is surprisingly full of talent.”

Having a creative outlet for those artistically inclined is vital to the growth of a community. A multitude of classes is available to the public, including painting and pottery. The cerulean blues and midnight black cartons of paint settle on the wooden shelves of the third floor. The third floor is home to pottery open studios Friday and Saturday. Participants choose a piece to paint, and the teacher will fire the piece within a week.

Subtle piano hymns echo through the quiet hallways rising from the marble slab it resides on. Children pour out of the dandelion colored school bus. They wander around in amazement taking in every ounce of the world around them. This hall is truly an artist's paradise. Childlike wonder is fascinating, an elevator becomes the vessel to a new reality.

The basement is accessible to those wanting a refreshment on the art of acrylic painting. To an artist, the mundane pale colors of the fields transform to a dystopian fantasy. Starting October first and continuing throughout the month, a Tim Burton style exhibit is showcased in the museum. Tim Burton is a director with American roots, his art style often reflects big eyed creatures and a dark underlying tone. His art style may resemble that of Margaret Keane. Big eyes and helpless blank stares echo throughout her work. This is perfect for the Halloween season. The exhibit is judged and will be shown in the gallery room on the first floor.

While the North Platte exhibits alone are quite interesting, traveling exhibits rotate into show. Currently, “The Artist As Muse” from the University of Nebraska Lincoln is in the halls. If one is interested in the arts, the Prairie Arts Center would be the perfect weekend escape.

Nightmare at 9D

 

 

 

Darcey Lindsey          

My feet felt like heavy bricks being dragged along the narrow aisle, holding me back from my seat at 9D. Wondering eyes glanced up at me, and I pondered what they could be thinking. Did they notice the sweat beading my forehead or upper lip? Or the way my knuckles turned pale the tighter I grasped the straps of my backpack? Perhaps, the fear emanating inside me was finally beginning to seep.

I was met with the overwhelming aroma of perfume and cologne, a mixture that didn’t sit well with my nose. It stung my nostrils and for such a confined space, it was an annoyance. But I’d have to endure it for the hour-long trip to Denver. My eyes scanned the seat numbers until coming across row 9 and I readily took my seat by the window. I upgraded my ticket specifically to choose my own seat, so I chose the one closest to the window and nearest to the emergency exits. To me, this felt like the one thing I was in control of. Everything else was out of my hands. Soon I’d be hovering hundreds of feet up in the air with nothing but the tacky, carpeted floor and layers of steel beneath my feet. 

My toes curled into themselves like they were grasping for leverage or life. I couldn’t tell the difference in that moment. The area around me was cramped and my legs barely had room to stretch. The windows were minute, not at all like what I’d seen in movies. Condensation from the morning rain trickled down the glass. You could smell the dampness in the air and it was alluring, the scent of rain always being a favorite of mine.

As more people began filing into the plane, I buckled myself into the seat making sure to fill any gap between the belt and my waist. The squeeze was harsh and uncomfortable but I was safe. My eyes avoided each person that passed by row 9 silently pleading that no one would sit next to me. In such a small plane, it would be congested and I wasn’t fond of others invading my personal space. My nerves and anxiety were already about to overflow, it didn’t need to get any worse. 

Those pleas were denied as a middle-aged woman with shoulder length mousy brown hair and dark circular framed glasses stored her carry-on bag in the bins above and planted herself next to me, giving a soft smile in my direction. I questioned whether I should’ve stored my minuscule backpack up there too instead of hidden beneath my seat. My first flight was already turning into a mess. A shaky hand swiped at the sweat above my upper lip, a salty droplet trailing down into my mouth. I blotted the rest of my face with the sleeve of my purple silk button up shirt and hoped the lady next to me wouldn’t be able to smell the sweat.

We sat there in silence and my eyes were drawn to the window next to me, where golden rays from the morning sunrise reached out. The warmth was welcoming like a friend. I peered out the window, squinting from the brightness and was embraced by a wondrous sight. Pinks, oranges, yellows, and reds all blended into one, creating a painting before my eyes. Oh, how wonderful it was to witness one of the beauties the natural world had to offer. My thoughts were intruded upon when the voice of the flight attendant sounded throughout the plane. Welcoming everyone aboard the flight and running through your usual safety protocols, she stated we would be taking off shortly. Her words became muffled and my heart beat in its place, thumping like a drum. Could the woman next to me hear it too? Panic set in and I did the only thing that could bring me temporary relief. I bit down on my nails, my teeth chipping away like a scraper on flaking paint. The chewing continued even after a metallic taste filled my mouth.

“Are you nervous?” The woman inquired, startling me out of my own mind. Was it that obvious? Embarrassment washed over me and I cowered slowly into my seat. I paused my nail biting only to reply to the curious lady.

 “Y-yeah, it’s my first flight.” I managed to mutter the words despite finding it very difficult to speak at all. Why was I opening up to a complete stranger? It was unlike me but she seemed genuine and almost concerned.

What came out of her mouth next baffled me and threw me for a loop. “If at all during this flight you get scared or nervous, feel free to hold my hand. I don’t mind.” I’m sure I looked quite stupid then, gawking at her like some other worldly being. I was so transfixed that any other thought escaped my mind completely. How soothing it was to hear such kind words from a total stranger. I could only nod with a grin forming on my face before reverting to look out my window.

My heart beat louder and louder as the plane revved its engine, backing out of the terminal and making its journey to the runway. We sat there a moment, and I wondered what they were waiting for. The engine pierced my ears as the plane sped forward at an impossible speed. My body was forced back against the seat, suddenly a prisoner to gravity. It was exhilarating and exciting and I smiled from ear to ear from the fuzzy feeling it caused in my stomach. When we became airborne, I felt so light. It was as if all 260 pounds of me disintegrated with the increasing altitude. The wheels were pulled up under the plane causing it to jolt slightly and I was sure I had stopped breathing momentarily. The town below me that I called home grew smaller. The roads and cars resembled ants trekking down dirt paths and if I reached out a finger, it was as if I could squish them. The innocence in me tried seeking out my mother’s house where my son would be sound asleep, cozy in his bed. I hoped I’d see him again.

The flight attendant came around offering complimentary cookies and drinks for our short flight. I graciously accepted the cookies and a cup of water. Crumbly cinnamon goodness filled my mouth and was washed down with a splash of water. I hadn’t realized just how thirsty I was. My cracked lips parted, creating rows of broken crevices on the once soft skin. My mouth was a scorched desert, lapping at every drop of water as it cascaded down my throat. Another temporary relief I desperately needed then.

That relief was washed away when our plane abruptly started rocking and shaking and a noise chimed above me, signaling turbulence. I breathed with heavy, shallow breaths and tried not to think of how this might be my impending doom. This wasn’t how I wanted to go. The fear arising in me cast a black veil over my mind. Whatever positive thoughts I had left entwined themselves with the stitching in the veil. Tears threatened to spill over like an overflowing cup. My stomach twisted and turned along with the tilt of the plane’s wings. 

With no hesitation, I slid my hand into the hand of the lady beside me and she squeezed knowingly. Her hands felt slightly wrinkled, like the pages of an aging book. Nonetheless, they were pleasant and toasty. I quietly prayed that she wouldn’t mind my sweaty, clammy palm. My eyes clamped shut. It felt like a lifetime had passed before the unnerving shaking stopped.

Still, I held the strangers’ hand and took the opportunity to look to the sky, where we swam amongst the clouds. They looked like cotton balls matted together to form a blanket of fluffiness over the earth. The sky was a lighter blue than I had ever imagined it to be. I had lived my whole life only seeing earth and life from one angle, never having known how beautiful it looks from up high. 

It wasn’t until Denver came into my line of sight that I released her hand, casting a thankful smile toward her. I breathed a sigh of relief when the pilot announced we would be landing soon. Planes could be seen coming to and from the Denver Airport. I stared in awe, wondering about the places they could be going and where a ticket could take me next. There were worldwide wonders that needed to be seen; the big, small, and the obscure. A matter of hours and a wad of cash could take someone across border lines or the entire world, and maybe the most exciting part of it for me is that one day I might be the comforting hand for a nervous passenger, too.