MORGAN RUN 101
LIKE IT OR NOT... THIS PRETTY MUCH SUMS UP A DECENT GAME PLAN FOR LIFE.
Today marks a milestone in America; one which will be remembered and honored in perpetuity. Like so many others, I remember precisely where I was when the carnage and tragedy began early in the morning of September 11, 2001. The sacrifice and heroic efforts expended by so many is something I will respect always… thank you all for your service.
GOD BLESS & PROTECT AMERICA... ALWAYS!
While wanting to pay homage to this day 23 years ago, the few brief statements above do that.
Time to move on…
Four years ago, deep into 2020 and reeling from the impact which the pandemic from hell created, feeling isolated and confused amidst all the back-and-forth edicts regarding public safety, I looked around taking stock of who and what was central to my life and concluded that Santa Ynez had finally lost any of the appeal it once held. My very rocky, on-again/off-again romance with the community I had known and lived amongst for so long was put to rest. That chapter of my life was finally over, and not because I was in emotional distress about being an empty-nester or after having lost several significant familial figures over the course of a year, as was the case when I moved to Texas. My new circumstance resembled nothing like what I had ever felt or experienced before, and thus my next move was carefully considered and calculated. My daughter and I had successfully co-founded and been operating a business for the three years prior, which in turn jump-started an offshoot that held endless potential and could be managed and “grown” from any location at all. Freedom was in front of me, and I ran at it with glee. Well wait, that’s not entirely true; there wasn’t any running involved. Rather there were boxes ad nauseum, moving vans, cars packed to the brim, six canines, one cat, and a spacious, two-story hillside rental home secured and prepaid for an entire year. Good start, right? I thought so.
WHAT DO YOU THINK? ~ LET’S GO TURN SOME PAGES.
If I were a superstitious person, I might have thought twice when realizing that my moving date happened to fall on September 11th, but I prefer to think of myself more as a spiritual person and didn’t buy into any of the bad “juju” which could have represented the unforgettable date. As such, I backed my fully loaded car out of the driveway, waited for the large Iron gate to roll open and drove over Highway 154, before making the left hand turn on to the 101 in Santa Barbara heading South. All things considered for a Friday afternoon, traffic wasn’t too horrendous, but even so I didn’t arrive at my destination until well after dark. The first and largest moving van had reached the property before me, and my son-in-law as well as two of the movers had already completely emptied the contents of the enormous semi-truck into the house, leaving me a note on the front door saying they left to get a bite to eat and would be back. I knew as soon as I stepped foot inside the front door, a horrible mistake must have occurred. The assortment of ever-changing restrictions which Covid protocols demanded meant I wasn’t permitted to tour the property in person, but instead saw it through the lens of a lengthy, 3D video taken by the listing agent offering the property for lease. But what I saw in the video clip (which I surely viewed at least 20 times prior to signing the Lease Agreement) in no way resembled the dwelling I walked into that evening. Stepping over the threshold, an overwhelmingly putrid odor filled my nostrils, immediately causing me to gag, then sneeze repeatedly. Next, as I walked from room to room, there was no escaping the sight of both mouse and rat droppings throughout. I was disgusted, but figured a super thorough cleaning together with the services of a good Pest Control company would remedy the matter. Knowing nothing could be done immediately and feeling drained from the drive as well as the preceding few weeks which had been 100% occupied with packing up the last house, I decided to call it a night and made up the sole mattress which had found its way from the moving van into the rancid and filthy place which was supposed to be my new home, and readied myself for the work ahead following a good night’s rest, as well as getting my entourage/posse of six,(or seven - counting Pumpkin) four-legged “kiddos” fed, watered, and settled in.
GOOD COMPANY ISN’T NECESSARILY RESTRICTED TO BEINGS WITH TWO LEGS; QUITE THE OPPOSITE AND THE PROOF POSITIVE IS REFLECTED RIGHT HERE IN THESE PICTURES.
So, with my invigorated spirit guiding my next moves, I continued on. Um, hold up; not so fast Missy… stop right there. That’s not exactly how the story went, is it? No, and while it was certainly an occasion when I wish I’d been as calm and collected as just relayed… I wasn’t. With full disclosure, I behaved like a major “beeeotch” that evening. It was one of a multitude of times when I’d have loved an opportunity for a “do-over.” Rather, than give everything away immediately though, let’s keep going and see where the journey takes us?
After arriving at and walking through the house that evening, I was appalled. My dismay at the ACTUAL condition of the property versus what I viewed on the property’s video was indescribable. I mistakenly assumed after my years in Georgia and then Texas I was thoroughly “schooled” as to the very real if utterly distasteful existence of all things “creepy-crawly.” Sooooo not the case. Both those locations did introduce to me to an entire legion of creatures never seen before, but truth be told those were very different circumstances. The homes and properties in both Georgia and Texas were either historic, grand, stunning, new and in perfect condition, or most often a combo of the aforementioned. Walking through the spaces in this, my new future residence, was a thoroughly disgusting experience. The carpet was stained, reeking of a not yet distinguishable but vile stench, with visible signs of rodent infestation, plus the appliances, hardware, door screens and window casings throughout were rusty, broken, and generally unusable. My threshold of patience was rapidly dwindling, and I could feel panic overcoming me as my mind spun faster and faster. What had I done? No sooner had I worked myself into a complete tizzy when my cell rang. It was Emily, who had left the Valley last, as (per usual) she was our “closer.” She relayed that everything in Santa Ynez was wrapped up and she was maybe an hour or so away, while also telling me that Alex’s cell had died, but he was en route back to the house where I stood in disbelief and misery. I tried to speak calmly as I knew what kind of unbearably long day my daughter had endured, but doubt I delivered the message she was hoping to receive. Instead, I said “I really wish the guys had called one of us before unloading the contents of the moving vans; I would NEVER have moved forward with this shitshow.” She urged me to relax and said we could regroup in the morning, but I was already “loaded for bear” and ready to do battle. It was far too late in the evening to contact the real estate agent by phone, so instead I was in the middle of composing a scathing email when Alex walked through the front door. Yikes, I’ll never be able to apologize profusely enough for the diatribe I unleashed that evening; it was not a proud moment. Without boring you, it will suffice to say my hostility was more than a wee bit apparent, and Em and Alex ended up getting a hotel room that evening while I stubbornly refused the opportunity to do the same and instead slept on the mattress I had made up, with my sweet Stella and five other 4-legged sentries beside me, doing double duty as both guard dogs and “security blanket.” Even though the sheets were brand new, the mattress was laying directly on the foul-smelling carpet below, as furniture was everywhere with no rhyme nor reason, another point of contention on the list being created in my mind. It was a fitful night, but by the grace of God, a friend had dropped off a care package earlier in the day prior to my arrival, which contained not just a bottle of chilled Pinot Grigio, but a new wine glass as well… yay, pay dirt. Far too early the next morning I was depressed and desperate enough for coffee that I remembered and reached for the huge Yeti of my favorite brew made the day before for my drive South which was still sitting in the drink holder of my car parked outside. Thank heavens for “Yetis.” The dark, rich, magic elixir within the large vessel resting in my car was still warm. I sipped slowly, walking around the property’s exterior, letting Stella & crew do their business while we all stretched our legs and I attempted to clear my head from the stench inside the house. After tossing and turning for five hours prior to awaking, trying to call it sleep, one thing had become abundantly clear, the odor which filled my nostrils had started to make my eyes swell and skin itch too; it was absolutely rodent urine. Whether it was mice or rats was unknown, but at that point who the “F***” cared (potato/potahto) right? Either way, “it” was absolutely, not going to work. I wasn’t willing to spend one more night in the stinky, filthy mess; plus, the house was, most definitely, NOT what had been represented in the property listing online or in the formal Lease Agreement and Disclosures. Still the thing really bugging me was that all, or a large part, of our furniture and belongings had already been transferred from the moving van into the damn dump in front of me. Removing all those items would have to be figured out fast and before the foul odor was absorbed into our items. With that goal in mind, I went about the process of extricating myself, as well as Em and Alex, from this untenable situation.
Quite a while back in the DearEasyDiaries journey, I wrote and published a post entitled “Just Enough To Be Dangerous.” That piece came immediately to mind as I paced around the rodent-infested house’s exterior with my dogs, sipping my coffee, and prolonging the inevitable return inside the house. My mind was literally abuzz with the mental checklist being composed regarding the innumerable faults which plagued the albatross placed squarely at my feet, and I knew from past experience that success would only occur if I dropped my bad attitude, got over the mistakes made before my arrival at the property, and concentrated my efforts on detailing and exposing all the defects with the property, in hopes of developing a plan to move forward. Although the past 24 hours were so totally not the way I had envisioned the relocation transpiring, that’s just the way it goes sometimes, but by that point in life I was well-versed in plot twists and plan B’s.
As is most always my habit, I grabbed my pen and clipboard where all my lists pertaining to the move and more were stored and reached below the copious notes on top to find some fresh, blank paper towards the bottom. It was still only about seven a.m., but I knew Em and Alex would not be ready for quite some time to deal with me after the ranting I did the night before, and I had to keep myself busy in the meantime. Once again, I repeated the same process I had done upon my arrival hours earlier and walked through each room including the garage, examining with painstaking attention every single crevice of the space, capturing the long list of flaws not only in writing but with photographic evidence on my cell as well. I opened each cupboard, drawer, medicine cabinet, closet door, and inspected everything in sight, including water pressure in each bathroom, as well as the kitchen and laundry, and opened the sliding doors leading to the house’s numerous balconies. What a disgusting mess. That must have been right around the time my “Just Enough To Be Dangerous” brain kicked into overdrive. I called a friend, also a real estate agent in the area and asked a few favors: #1: the name of a kick-ass Pest Control company; #2: referral for a property inspector who was obsessively thorough; and last but not least… #3: the ability to use my friend’s name to get quicker results. My friend came through big time and within a few hours I had appointments set with the appropriate professionals first thing Monday morning. It was with those appointments made and a pinch of good news to share, that I called Em and Alex.
“Fortune favors the bold” so the saying goes, and thankfully for me, my “bold” (or rather groveling) apology to Emily and Alex was accepted. Within a week, I had documentation from a pest control company as well as my friend’s highly-respected contractor/property inspector citing chapter and verse about the innumerable flaws that the “house of horrors” possessed, including black mold, rotting wood throughout, and last but certainly not least a urine-soaked interior resulting from a rat infestation. Armed with those thoroughly documented facts, I was able to negate the Lease Agreement, get every cent of our money back, as well as negotiate a two-week grace period to remove our belongings already placed inside the house. Not necessarily a win, but also not a loss. At the very least, we had an opportunity to regroup, re-adjust, and find a new place. Simple, right?
Not so much. The inventory of rental properties available at the time was dismal. No matter how connected and competent my real estate contacts were, they couldn’t just manufacture properties that fit our specs, and so with our belongings safely moved to a storage facility, we went about the process of locating interim housing. Not that it was in very close proximity to the area where we intended to settle, or the disaster we just escaped, but it was close to my old stomping grounds and a place that felt like home… The Inn at Rancho Santa Fe. That they had vacant suites, knew, loved us, and could easily accommodate our crew of canines, was just icing on the cake. It was as close to a perfect interim solution as I could have ever entertained.
THIS GLORIOUS PROPERTY IS ALSO KNOWN AS "THE INN AT RANCHO SANTA FE".
SOME HABITS DIE HARD, AND THIS BELOVED PROPERTY AND HOTEL, WITH IT’S INCREDIBLE STAFF THAT KNEW US PERSONALLY BY NAME AS WE DID THEM, REPRESENTED AN ENORMOUS PART OF MY PAST AND FAMILY. THAT QUALITY, IN AND OF ITSELF, MADE STAYING THERE FEEL LIKE HOME.
Not everything good lasts, no matter how much we might will it to be, and The Inn fell into that category. Three weeks into our residency, we learned that there was a large wedding party arriving at the property for a week’s stay. Kathleen, the lovely front desk manager, and a dear soul, told us we would have to find an alternative location for the week, but that we would be welcomed back afterwards for as long as we needed. Quel nightmare? My seven years of taking French in school eludes me right now, but I’m sure you get the gist? Thank heavens, because at that moment I had no other words. Finding a nice hotel that permitted pets, with adequate space for both dogs and humans, and the potential for an extended stay, was no easy feat, whether it be a week, a month, or whatever. That said, we did find a spot. It wasn’t The Inn, but it too offered a golf/country club type of resort amidst a residential community, it was safe, and more importantly it had availability. I’ll take the “wins” when I get them. Two days later, we were all settled into Morgan Run… two rooms, three humans, six dogs, three cars and a boatload of baggage. Not the proverbial kind of baggage (although there was that too) but literally, suitcase-type baggage, and plenty of it. There wasn’t the comfort of knowing all the staff, the ability to dial room service, or the familiarity that comes with decades worth of patronage, but Morgan Run was safe and could accommodate us indefinitely, and that detail was priceless.
ONE NEVER KNOWS WHEN THE NEED TO ALTER A COMPONENT OF OUR CAREFULLY PLANNED AGENDAS MIGHT BE NECESSARY, BUT THEN I'VE GOTTEN PRETTY ADEPT AT DEALING WITH "PLAN B'S AND PLOT TWISTS, SO PIVOT I DID.
With that step taken, but still no permanent housing situation in sight, it was a no-brainer to settle at Morgan Run for the time being. Who knew that “the time being” would equate to three plus months? Because of our familial business, its structure, and the flexibility it affords, Emily and Alex travel the state of California FREQUENTLY, like two to three weeks of the month, while my part was conducted from a home base, or in this case… a hotel base, i.e., Morgan Run. We used to joke that the drive from Morgan Run (where my room number, coincidentally was 101) to Highway 101, heading north and then south again; over and over ad nauseam, was some kind of crazy karma… hence this title’s post. But truth be told, it felt like an adventure, and while I may not have been climbing Mount Everest, or documenting my way across the Sahara Desert, it was a new experience and my first official stint as… what? Who knows how to perfectly capture or characterize that “brief moment” in time? I was still copywriting and performing the functions of our business that fell under my domain, but I was expanding my prowess in other areas too and, apparently, adding a new qualification on my resumé to boot. In reality, there wasn’t a boot in sight, but my tennis shoes sure got a workout as I spent the next three months playing the part of “pied-piper” to our crew of six canines. The hotel property was flanked by a golf course, lake, clubhouse, tennis courts, swimming pool, all smack dab in the middle of two to three residential communities; otherwise known as prime walking paths for a woman in charge of six dogs, of varying sizes and shapes, but each one a treasured member of our family. The dogs had all weathered the move to and back from Texas well, and were like finely-tuned instruments. Each had their quirks, but between them all, I felt safe on my own in a hotel room for days and weeks on end. Stella didn’t require a leash, as she was impeccably trained and accompanied me everywhere. The others were all obedient and easy-keepers but they weren’t Stella. The raising, lowering, or some other sleight of hand, in addition to the expression on my face was all Stella needed to cue her next move, and for all intents and purposes, she was more like a human then dog. Hence her constant presence by my side. Those first couple weeks were a hoot, as I walked and walked and walked… always with two to three dogs in tow. I’ve never been stopped or approached more, as random hotel guests, assorted staff members and even community residents, were consistently shocked and fascinated by the number and varying types of canines which accompanied me on those walks. People may have been more hesitant to engage in conversation when Scarlette was by my side, as Rottweilers get a bad rap most of the time, but little did they know she was probably the most innocuous of all. No-one would have guessed that either my Papillion, Coralie, or Em & Alex’s mini-Aussie Crown, would have been the first to utter a low growl should someone walk past my door, or in Crown’s case… lift and curl up one side of her mouth to show her pearly whites, that were absolutely prepared to “meet and greet” an unfriendly or threatening presence. Regardless of the potential for trouble, nothing was ever allowed to escalate to that level as I knew the boundaries and situations appropriate for each one of my faithful followers. I was asked on at least eight or nine occasions if I was a professional dog walker, and one lady even asked if she could bring her “naughty Lhasa Apso, Tashi” to me for a week or two to ‘transform’ her into a dog like the ones I was walking. Heaven knows, I love dogs and have shared my life with more than I could count on all my fingers and toes (thrice), but “professional dog walker” never made my bucket list or résumé, at least not yet.
By chance, my room on the property was located on the ground floor at the end of one of the hotel’s several buildings. That end of the wing had an exterior patio with a stretch of lawn between the building and the golf course surround, as well as a side yard immediately adjacent to the parking lot. What more could a girl want? Hmmm… maybe a hunky-dunk of a handsome dude, about 6 feet, 4 inches tall, built for the days, polite and kind, with a smile that was nothing if not easy on the eyes? Yes, that would’ve gotten my attention for sure, and did. But when I discovered my “wing-mate” had two small boys with an Iguana in tow any romantic notions I may have entertained were decimated. Nonetheless, we all ended up being there for the same length of time, got to know the rhythm of one another’s comings and goings, exchanged conversation, names, and on many occasions while walking my canine crew, my imposingly tall new friend could be found on the swath of green grass adjacent to our building with his two boys performing or practicing what looked like “Tai Chi” to my untrained eye. To see the enormity of this man guiding and coaching his two little boys (4 & 6 yrs) as they replicated the precise and controlled movements their father was executing was a quite a sight. Combine that image with the added visual of the foot-long Iguana basking in the sun with his harness and leash wrapped loosely around one of the property’s numerous Palm trees, and all I could think was, “what a cool Dad.” The little boys usually appeared a tad scruffy and could sometimes be seen at any hour of the day in pajamas; still they always said “hello,” and looked you in the eye when speaking, which never fails to impress me. Our paths crossed frequently during those three months and the testosterone trio got to know my charges, just as I conquered my fear of Iguanas and took to looking for crickets or other large insects to save and leave for the boys outside their room at the other end of the building. On one such occasion, as I leaned over to deposit the Ziploc bag with carefully pierced air holes outside the Iguana’s homebase, the door to the hotel room flew open and a woman from housekeeping stepped outside to reach for more supplies from the large cart parked in the lengthy hallway. I couldn’t help but notice the room’s interior. Holy moly, the mountains of clothes strewn all over was almost unbelievable. But then what would you expect from a single man caring for and keeping two young boys in a hotel for months on end? I confess to having heaved a huge sigh of relief and felt enormous gratitude that my own two kids were all raised up. The six canines awaiting my return from the brief walk to the ice machine and critter collection/deposit were a piece of cake in comparison to what I saw inside Room 125. Each of my “kids” knew their allotted space within Room 101, were impeccably housebroken, “spoke” only when appropriate, and not only afforded me a reassuring measure of safety but companionship too… what a blessing. Another plus about my 4-legged crew was that the only entertainment they required were our full slate of daily walks, food, water, and a couple treats throughout the day. Easy peasy.
RUGER WAS A REAL PRO AT MAKING HIMSELF FEEL RIGHT AT HOME, WHEREVER!
EACH OF MY KIDS WERE WELL-VERSED REGARDING THE REQUIREMENTS OF MAKING THE TRAVEL TEAM, AND RUGER (SHOWN HERE) ESPECIALLY LOVED TAKING ADVANTAGE OF WHATEVER CREATURE COMFORTS WERE AVAILABLE.
Fall in California is a lovely season, and the spectacular weather made my incessant daily walks a pleasure. After about six to seven days, we found a groove and routine that fit nicely. The table and chairs on my exterior patio substituted well for a working desk/office while basking in the fresh air and sunshine but also did double duty for entertaining. No, it’s not like the dogs and I were hosting “raves,” but I did reconnect with a couple old friends from days gone by who still lived in the area, and the patio which overlooked the golf course and lake beyond were a lovely place to sip a glass of Pinot Grigio. The moderate temperatures were also a perfect backdrop for dog walking, and it took just a day or two to develop a solid routine, which looked something like this:
-6:00 a.m. 1st walk of the day in three different shifts so all six “kids” could get a healthy stretch.
-11:00 a.m. 2nd walk, similar routine but a different route
-3:00 p.m. 3rd walk, same routine and another route
-6:30 p.m. 4th walk, same routine but one of the previous routes
-9:30 – 10:00 p.m. Last walk, only around the lighted sections of hotel property
In between all the walks, I worked and learned all about the culture of living in a hotel; more specifically at a property that wasn’t The Inn at Rancho Santa Fe or The Cloister at Sea Island. Those properties I had pretty-well dialed; this was different. I had no history at the property, no acquaintances within the staff, and because most of my time was spent working or walking dogs, I stayed focused on those two jobs for the foreseeable future. I stuck to my work, watching out for both our business as well as the six sweet “kiddos” in my care. That didn’t necessarily stop me though from noticing things that went on around me, like the “hunky-dunk” hulk-like father and his two boys; the couple of nice and thoughtful housekeepers who made sure to leave extra towels outside my door, the wild assortment of Golfers who chose to use the parking lot adjacent to my hotel room as a bathroom, or the crazy Vespa-riding “whack job” woman, whose white terrier-type dog repeatedly leapt from the basket-type seat located behind the driver’s seat where the crazy-lady sat. The dog refused to listen or obey, but loved to run back and forth, all around, taunting me and my “kids.” It was quite the jolt I felt on the occasion when the yappy white dog darted in front of me while walking Ruger. Each and every hair on the neck of my big golden-red sentry stood on end, and after emitting an almost deafening bark, he launched forward with a vigor and strength I didn’t know he possessed. The retractable leash in my hand finally stretched to its full length, but not before I caught some air and Ruger (all 93 lbs of him) got just close enough to the wild white fiend to scare him away for good from my room’s exterior patio. It was the first time I ever saw Ruger behave that way, but I embraced the moment as it proved once again the dependable loyalty and companionship of a great dog. It was a month later when I saw police arrive at the Vespa lady’s door where she was served a formal eviction notice. Turns out if you plan to stay for months on end at a hotel, they expect you to continue paying for the privilege; who knew? My sarcasm is real but apparently Vespa lady never got the memo about staying current on her hotel tab.
When I was working not walking, my time was spent either looking at properties to secure a new house or writing copy for any one of the dozen or so clients we have. Our marketing duties vary but run the gamut of everything from writing social media captions, menu descriptions, website profiles, magazine articles, newspaper releases, real estate listing & property specifications, promotional materials, and every so often some other “one-off” project; it’s good work, and I love the creativity and flexibility it offers. Those three months at Morgan Run 101 proved to me once again how vital the ability to be flexible and spontaneous is.
Shortly before my stint at the property concluded, I met Mrs. “Hulk,” a.k.a., Stephanie, the wife of hunky-dunk and Mom to not just the two boys, but a young girl as well. Turns out this charming family of five was in the process of selling their current home all the while waiting for a new custom home to be completed. I laughed along with both parents as they explained to me, while mildly joking, that trying to sell a house with their busy and active kids present (at that juncture not in school full-time because of Covid) was next to impossible and so this interim solution of separating the “boys” (all three of them) from the listing and showing process was how they chose to handle the transition. Bravo… whatever works, right? As it turns out, we exchanged names, contact information, and coincidentally in one of our conversations, I learned that Stephanie had a big job with “Farmers Insurance,” a company that my one of my Great Uncles created. Weird, huh? I still see the “Hulk” out and about every so often in town, and discovered he was, or used to be, a professional Boxer. I guess my pseudonym “Hulk” for the hunky-dunk was fairly fitting.
It's odd now to glance back and remember that experience, especially in light of the fact that none of those six sweet canine angels are still here with me. All of them have now passed but each were well into their teens, and will be remembered years and years from now for how they, seemingly effortlessly, made my life so supremely better. When Stella “left’ just a month ago due to the late-night rupturing of a sudden and unknown Hemangioma tumor in her Spleen, I was devastated, and can’t begin to express the grief or emotional paralysis I experienced. Maybe that’s why today felt like the right time to share this story. Neither Stella, nor any of my “kiddos” represent the true equivalent of human loss, such as those who perished on 9/11, 23 years ago, but they come close… So too, life has shown me that good dogs can often be far more loyal than many humans.
This one-of-a-kind creature will forever be remembered and live on in my eyes and heart.
I’VE USED THIS QUOTE BEFORE, BUT GOOD THINGS BEAR REPEATING AND THIS IS ONE OF THEM… “IT’S NOT WHAT YOU LOOK AT THAT MATTERS, IT’S WHAT YOU SEE.”
I wanted to tie the experience detailed above, and my relationship to the magnificent animals which have graced my life for so long, to a song, because like dogs, music is medication for me, but right now the only song that feels even close to a suitable match is “Deeper Well” by Kacey Musgraves but it’s a pretty heavy message contained within those lyrics. However, if I could substitute the “bong” and “high” references for my four-legged animal kind of addiction, the rest is pretty spot on.
But, bottom line because no-one likes a “debbie-downer,” let me leave this post with an attempt at levity. On the day that we finally packed up Morgan Run 101 to settle in our new digs, it was already December. The Hulk and his family had departed just a few days prior, which was a bit of a relief knowing the “crapolla” which would be rolling out of our two Morgan Run rooms would likely resemble the typhoon type scenario I saw months earlier when dropping the captured cricket outside Room 125. Our moving-out caravan included three vehicles, a Jeep, a 2500 Chevy Truck, and my S500 Mercedes, which all simultaneously backed out of our parking spaces, each overflowing with baggage, two mini fridges, dog crates, plus the two Bronze sculptures and large Baccarat Crystal Centerpiece, which technically never left the trunk of my car (well-encased in moving blankets and pillows) as well as three humans and six dogs snugly huddled inside the assorted vehicles. Together we drove away from Morgan Run 101, grateful for the respite, but looking forward to a new home and starting real life again.