A Secret and Dangerous Mission

Like most people, I dread moving. 

The notion of downsizing from my Florida house into a condo is one I’ve been debating about for nearly a year. Now that the idea has become reality, I’ve filled a yellow legal pad with a myriad of to-do lists. As often happens when we prep for such a big moment, one we’ve completed countless of other times, we are reminded of the past and the crazy things that transpired. 

It was the spring of 2001, and my family–which consisted of three busy teens, a sassy five-year old, two adult collie dogs, and a large iguana–was embroiled in packing and moving out of one historically significant Victorian and into another. The renovation project of the second “old lady” had suffered numerous construction delays. So, when the moving van arrived at the new house, much of our furniture had to be grouped in rooms where they didn’t belong. Spring morphed into summer before I made sense of things. 

One evening later that summer, I poured myself a glass of wine and joined my husband in the backyard of our new “old” house. As Steve flipped burgers on the grill, I peeked through the slats of our fence and admired the mature landscaping of the neighbors’ yard. Songbirds fluttered in and out of the tree canopy, eating from an array of feeders scattered about the neighbor’s property. In their feeding frenzy the birds jangled a set of wind chimes hung in a towering oak. 

When I heard the chime’s lilting melody, my hand flew to my mouth. “Oh, no!” I moaned to Steve, “I forgot to pack the wind chimes you and the kids gave me for Mother’s Day!” 

While I hoped the chimes were right where I’d left them in the large magnolia tree, I feared the new owners may have tossed them out. As Steve and I bantered about how to remedy the situation, our rising sixth-grader son traipsed down the patio steps. 

“When’s dinner?” he asked.

“Burgers are just about ready, son. We’re discussing what to do about the wind chimes Mom left at our old house.” 

My son looked at my stricken face. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll go get them. After dinner.” 

I watched my son’s quick smile widen. I knew this kid. I doubted he’d ring the doorbell and ask the owner’s permission to reclaim the wind chimes. His voice may have deepened into that of an adult male, but he still fostered the rich fantasy life of a boy. One that involved good guys, bad guys, and secret and dangerous missions.

“You can’t just show up at the old house …” I started to say, but my husband’s palm went up, silencing my objections. 

“Perfect! It’ll make your mother happy to have the chimes back.”

My son ran up the steps two at a time. “I’m calling Matt to see if he can help.” 

After my son wolfed down a double cheeseburger and fed most of his broccoli to the male collie, he hopped on his bicycle. He planned to meet Matt at the corner by our old house, only three blocks away. Steve and I took what was left of the bottle of red wine out to the front porch where we dropped into a pair of black wicker rockers to wait. Our two collies followed us out and surveyed the front garden, their noses lifting at the pungent aroma of the newly laid cedar mulch. 

I sipped my wine and turned to Steve. “I think you should have driven him over there. Made sure he handled this the right way.”

Steve chuckled, pointing his finger at me. “He’s a good kid. Let him prove it to you. Besides, what real trouble could he get into?” 

I raised my eyebrows. Because the Village of Hinsdale lacked serious crime to fight, the local police tended to zero in on the town’s youth. They nabbed kids for suspicious activities, hauled them into the station, and phoned their parents. As much as I wanted my precious Mother’s Day gift returned, I didn’t need it at the expense of my son’s reputation. 

The collies let us know the boys were home before we caught sight of them. The boys sped past us into the driveway. We met them by the garage where they slipped off their bikes, all high-fives and grins and guffaws. My son reached into his backpack and handed me a wad of metal and tangled twine. 

“Mission accomplished,” he said to his dad who slapped him on the back.

“Thanks! Were the new owners …” I never got the full question out.

“Yeah, Mom, don’t worry. We rang the front doorbell. No one answered. We went around to the back door, and I knocked and knocked until my hand hurt. While I was doing all that, Matt pulled the chimes from the tree.”

Steve took the tangled chimes from me, shook the kinks out, and asked, “Where do you want to hang these?” 

This anecdote is a gentle reminder about the small, yet important items that we often lose, misplace, or forget during the chaos of moving. Once this memory flooded in, I pulled the wind chimes from the yard and placed them in the house for safekeeping. As hard as I’ve worked on crafting my to-do lists, I know there’s something else I will forget during the upcoming move. 

And that, dear readers, is why an author’s work is never done. Life continues to provide fresh material to reflect upon and put on the printed page.

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Julie’s next book, Belonging Matters: Conversations on Adoption, Family, and Kinship will release on November 1, 2023 (Muse Literary), in time for National Adoption Awareness Month. The book will be available in all formats for preorder later this summer. 

On April 4th, Julie will speak to Ann Havasy’s Book Club on Bird Key, FL. She will share her perspective as both an adoptee and identical twin during the group’s discussion of Somewhere Sisters:  A Story of Adoption, Identity, and the Meaning of Family by Erika Hayasaki.  

Also in April, Julie joins author Gayle Brandeis and fellow Chicago writers from StoryStudio at the Ragdale Retreat Center April 21st to 23rd.

Julie will discuss her memoir Twice a Daughter: A Search for Identity, Family, and Belonging with the Daytona Book Club in Daytona Beach, FL on June 7th.

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