We have spent most of the summer waiting for it to quit raining long enough to move our "new" mobile home here. As wonderful as all that rain has been for my garden, it made things not very conducive to moving heavy objects.

Last week, the rain started to slow down. On the first two days, Amanda and I butchered the 42 surviving broiler chickens from the fifty we had started with. Amanda and I, being co-owners of the birds, were there both Monday and Tuesday, with some extra help on both days (thank goodness!). I did something I didn't think I would be capable of--41 of those head chops were done by me. Amanda held them during the death throes. We made a pretty good team, I think.

Wednesday morning, with about three days of mostly-dry weather (except for the sudden downpour while we were finishing our last five birds Tuesday evening) behind us, I called the mover.

"Do you think you could move our trailer this week?"

Typical humming and hawing ensued on the other end of the line, with a sudden "Maybe we could do it this afternoon," thrown in there at the end.

We weren't ready for that, but there was no way I was going to turn him down! I called Jason at work, said, "You need to come home NOW!" and then started what would be three days of a frantic pace. The rest of Wednesday was spent moving my kitchen into the holiday trailer (in which we had only been sleeping up to that point) and packing the rest of the house (most things just got moved to the floor), while Jason worked on disconnecting all the utilities. There was an hour and a half of torture in the afternoon while we watched two inches of rain fall, with some hail thrown in for good measure, and we wondered if all of our energy had been expended for naught. However, the mover said he would have his guys come out and take a look the next morning, and maybe it could still be done Thursday.

We held our breath. And prayed.

To be continued...