Empty Bottle

Empty Bottle

Remembering Past Moves and Relocations

“Hey, what’s the story with this empty liquor bottle? Can we toss it?”
 
Shirley asked me those questions one day early in our relationship. The empty Balvenie bottle sat on the shelf of the opening between the dining room and the kitchen in my house in Modesto, California. Shirley was cleaning and dusting, and she held up the empty bottle with her fingers wrapped around the neck. I walked over and took it from her, holding it in the palm of my left hand as I looked at it. The label described what the bottle once held. It was a Balvenie Port Wood, a 21-year-old single malt Scotch that was finished by aging in old port-wine casks.
 
The memories started coming back as I held it in my hand: the places, times, people, and all that had come before; things began coming back into focus as my thoughts turned backwards and the past came into view once again. I looked at Shirley and remembered that she was talking to me, asking me about this empty bottle. “No,” I told her softly. “I think I’ll hold on to this one for awhile.” I set the bottle back down on the shelf, and remembered some other empty bottles, bottles that once graced previous abodes.   
 
I suppose the actual tradition started back in August of 1985 when I moved to New Hampshire from Connecticut. I bought a bottle of Old Crow, a straight bourbon, to carry with me on the trip. Even though it was only a three-hour drive, there was more to it than just a drive; I knew what the next week had in store for me.
 
Many years ago, when I got out of the Army in 1971, three of us drove across the United States from North Carolina to California. I was riding my motorcycle, and it takes a lot of effort to keep a bike up to speed on the highway and cover five hundred miles a day. Somewhere near Tyler, Texas, we stopped for the night and found ourselves in a dry county; there would be no beer with the burger that night, no nightcap to ease the road weariness, just a nondescript bad-smelling room in the middle of nowhere. We traveled with a small bar stash after that experience. Four months later, I drove my motorcycle back east alone in February, a cold and dangerous business to be sure. I had little money and stayed in the cheapest places I could find, my meager belongings tied on the back of the seat. I had a green plastic Army canteen filled with Irish whisky with me on that trip, so I could enjoy a shot with an instant coffee in the motel room as I sat freezing after a long day on the highway, sometimes having an evening drink as I sat in a hot bath or in the shower. 
 
In 1985, though, it was a corporate move; my belongings were packed and loaded into the moving van in Manchester, Connecticut, by a firm specializing in relocations. After the movers loaded their truck, I locked the apartment, dropped the keys off in the office, and headed up north towards New Hampshire to find an apartment in, ironically, the Manchester area. I had accepted a job offer from an insurance firm there, and now had a week to find a new apartment, have everything delivered, set up utilities and such, and settle in before reporting to work.
 
In my small pickup truck, I had packed some personal items that I would move. I had a cooler with some food and drinks, boxes filled with clothes, an oscillating fan, and several bottles of wine. I also packed some boxes with basic kitchen necessities for cooking and eating, dishes and glasses, several boxes of bathroom supplies and towels, some books, a folding metal chair, a phone with a wall-jack cord, a sleeping bag and pad, my stereo receiver and speakers, and the bottle of bourbon in a daypack. So loaded, I headed north; I was thirty-five years old and alone, and making my first out of state job relocation.
 
I got to Manchester, New Hampshire, in the middle of the afternoon. Taking the beltway around to the east side of town, I headed north to an exit in South Hooksett. A group of apartment buildings adorned with a faux Tudor-style wood design stood near the exit. I drove to the rental office and found that there were indeed vacancies. There was a third floor one-bedroom apartment available that had a small deck overlooking the parking lot. With my job offer-letter and copies of previous utility bills serving as a reference, I wrote out a check, completed the lease, and soon had the keys to a new apartment in my hand.
 
I moved my truck over by the walkway leading to the door at the end of the building. The door opened up to the second floor, so I needed to carry everything up two flights of stairs and down a hall to the third floor unit. Alone, I got everything out of the truck and up the stairs and finally into the apartment. The task required many trips, and as it was an afternoon in August, I was soon drenched in sweat and tired. After the last load, I made one more trip down the stairs and moved the truck over to a parking space underneath my third-floor apartment balcony. The sun was now getting low.
 
The apartment consisted of one bedroom and one large living room. Inside the front door, a vinyl floor covered the front third of the room. On one side sat the stove, counter, sink, and refrigerator. On the other side a lamp hanging by a chain from the ceiling indicated where a dining room table should go. The bathroom and closets were off a short hall that led to the bedroom. My balcony faced the east, but it was not dark, the power was on and I had a couple of days to get it changed over to my name. There was a ceiling light in the kitchen area, and the light that hung on the chain in the dining area was operable. The bathroom had vanity lights, and there was a light over the stove as well. I opened the hanging slats that covered the doorway to the balcony, opened the large sliding door, plugged in the fan, and placed it in front of the opening. I switched on the fan and it began pumping fresh evening air into the apartment as it swept from side to side.
 
I set up the stereo receiver and tuner on the floor, connected the speakers, and pinned the FM antenna up on the wall. Soon, a local FM station was coming in on the speakers, and the music alternated with local news, announcements, and concert information. I checked the refrigerator and found it turned-off. I switched it on, filled up the empty ice cube trays, put them back in the freezer, and transferred food from the cooler into the fridge. The foodstuffs, utensils, and glasses, frying pan and pot, I stored away in the cupboards. I opened up the sleeping pad and sleeping bag put them down on the living room floor. After the bathroom supplies were stored away, I relaxed and took a shower, and followed this by donning a clean T-shirt and a pair of shorts.
 
Back in the kitchen, I filled a rocks glass with ice from the cooler and poured three fingers of bourbon into it. After a few swirls I took a good pull and soon felt the warmth spreading through my body. I opened a cold coke for a chaser. After a quick dinner consisting of two boiled hot dogs and some potato chips, I set the metal folding chair out on the balcony and had another bourbon. The day seemed long and stressful, but I had found a new place and begun the process of making a new home; I had accomplished a lot.
 
After awhile I left the darkness of the balcony, came inside, and drew the blinds. I lit a candle and placed it on the counter, turned off the lights, and lay down on the top of my sleeping bag to listen to the radio and let my thoughts wander. Alone in an empty room, my mind wondered over the events that led me to this place, and again felt the anguish of doubt and fear that comes with making such a change. People always say how hard it is for a family to move, but they at least bring their support group with them. Amid the doubt and loneliness, I thought about the course of my life, about what was gone and what was next. I remembered past successes and failures, thought about my divorce and about being alone, and of the courage it takes to follow your dreams. After a time I turned off the radio and blew out the candle, and was soon asleep.   .
 
Morning came and I made instant coffee and listened to the radio. I knew that the next few days would be stressful as well. On the radio I heard advertisements for local venues and restaurants with names and addresses unknown to me. To begin the process of finding my way around I needed a map of Manchester; I knew that was a necessity. I turned off the radio and headed outside to my truck; now it was time to get down to business.
 
At a local convenience store, I stopped for coffee, Danish, and a detailed town map. I found the offices of the phone and power companies and arranged for services, and found a pay phone and called the moving company to make arrangements for the delivery of my furniture; with relief I learned that they could do it tomorrow, there would only be one more night on the floor in an empty room. I went to the local cable company and arranged for an installation later in the week. I found a large shopping center close to the apartment and loaded up with supplies for the larder and refrigerator, including new condiments and perishables. I returned to the apartment got everything upstairs and put away. It was another fruitful day.
 
That night was much like the first. I cooked a simple dinner, and later, I read for a time while sitting on the folding chair under the light hanging in the dining area. Afterwards, I lay down with a bourbon on ice in the dark, and let my thoughts wander to the music on the radio before falling asleep.
 
The moving company appeared at the appointed time and, in a few hours, they filled the apartment with my furniture and boxes. I started on the boxes, putting clothes in the dresser and loading the closets. I broke down and stacked the empty boxes by the door, and when I finished the last task, I carried the pile of cardboard out to the dumpster. I now had a home once again. I set up the bed and made it with clean sheets; my art and pictures now hung on the wall. I had a TV on a table, coffee table, chair, and couch in the living area, and a dinning room table and chairs under the hanging light. With the phone line activated, I once again had a connection to the outside world. Soon, neighbors and co-workers were stopping by to visit.
 
On one such visit, I shared the last of the bourbon with some newfound friends. I held the empty bottle in my hand and looked at it; instead of tossing it in the garbage, I set it on a shelf in the kitchen as a testament to the move, and of the days of change and transition. It reminded me of the doubt and loneliness, of sleeping alone on the floor in the empty room, the challenges I faced and my determination to make a better life for myself in the future.
 
That bottle stayed there in the kitchen for over five years. There was much joy in the beginning, but the end of that period was hard. I had been out of work for a year because of major back surgery, and had amassed a sizeable credit card debt keeping the apartment going and my car on the road. Now, I was in a terrible job in Massachusetts servicing a dead technology and had a long commute to go with it. In December of 1990, I made the single greatest decision of my life; I would leave New England and everything familiar in my life behind me, and head for my friend’s home in San Diego to start life anew. I was 40 years of age.
 
I mailed some personal things to California, sold off what I could, and put a bunch of large art prints and photos in storage along with some other personal belongings. I owned a two-seat Mazda Miata, and I filled every backpack of mine with clothes and other necessities, and then jammed the packs inside the passenger area and in the trunk of the car. Locking up the apartment for the last time before heading west, I took down the empty bourbon bottle and remembered how the New Hampshire chapter of my life had begun, the hopes and fears, the first nights spent alone on the floor. I put the empty bottle in the trash bag; a new bottle of Pusser’s Navy Rum was in a daypack in the trunk of the Miata.
 
Thus, it began. Driving to San Diego from New England in a two-seat sports car loaded to the bursting point is a real transition. Because it was winter, my plan entailed driving south to Atlanta before turning west for California. I spent the first night on the road with my friend Bob in Meriden, Connecticut. After dinner, we smoked a cigar and enjoyed a drink over our usual ruminations on life and the vagaries found therein. I was up early the next morning; I wanted to get past the dreaded stretch leading down to New York City, and to get over the George Washington Bridge. Actually, I detested the entire stretch of highway along the eastern seaboard, and I looked forward to having it behind me.
 
The second night I spent with my friend Dan and his wife Mary in Raleigh, North Carolina, and followed this with a drive to a friend’s house in Atlanta. The next day was a long pull in periods of rain down Interstate 20 to Vicksburg, Mississippi. I found a cheap motel near the Mississippi River, and unloaded the car. After dinner in my room, I fell asleep watching the television.
 
The following day I drove to North Dallas and stayed with a friend from New Hampshire who had moved to Texas. After leaving North Dallas, it was a long pull to the end of the I-20, picking up Interstate 10 past Pecos and heading up and across the Davis Mountains before descending into Van Horn, Texas. For the first time on the trip, it felt like I was actually in the West. Driving downhill out of the mountains at night, the lights of Van Horn were visible far ahead in the distance. I spent a hard night in a tough dirty motel with a strange sense of unease and a headache that would not cease. The next day, I quickly passed by El Paso and headed through New Mexico and up over the continental divide. After another long day, I ended up near Casa Grande in Arizona. The motel was near a gritty and downtrodden area and the night was cold and windy.
 
I called my friend Steve in San Diego, excited now that there was but one more day to go. He then gave me the bad news; a storm was raging over the Laguna Mountains and snow had closed Interstate 8 at times during the day. The next day I got an early start and headed west on the I-8 with some uncertainty of what awaited me on the other side of the desert. Traveling through Gila Bend and Yuma I finally crossed the border into California. I drove across the low Imperial Valley and eventually saw the vague shape of cloud-covered mountains rising up in the distance. The road started climbing up through the Inyo Mountains, and as soon as the road reached the first 4000’ summit on the I-8, it was snowing. The highway was open, however, and I pressed on. I crossed two more 4000’ summits on the interstate and finally started downhill towards the coast. Driving through a blinding horizontal snow, I passed a sign that read “San Diego - 37 Miles”. In an hour, I pulled into Steve’s driveway.
 
“This is it,” I thought. “I’m here. For better or worse, I’m ready to get on with my life, and for what ever the West has in store for me.”
 
I looked for work in San Diego and found nothing, then expanded my search to Orange County, about 90 miles to the north, where I landed a job with Mitsubishi Electric in Cypress, California. Steve came north with me one day to assist in finding an apartment. We chose one in Huntington Beach, a nice one-bedroom unit on the second floor about two miles from the beach. I paid the initial rent and deposit on the new apartment with the small amount of money that still remained in a retirement account from the years I spent working in New Hampshire. Once again I was alone, sleeping on the floor in an empty apartment far from where I began, revisiting all the ghosts and challenges that I did in 1985 in New Hampshire, and then some. The sleeping bag and pad were the same; the stereo replaced by a twenty-dollar boom box. I tuned in a local station and prepared for all the activities to come.

For my first piece of furniture, I bought a redwood picnic table, then acquired a mattress and box spring that sat on a green metal frame. Someone gave me a couch and a coffee table, and soon I had friends coming over to visit. The empty Pusser’s bottle sat on a small shelf in the kitchen. It quietly reminded me of all the people and places between New Hampshire and Huntington Beach, where I was from and where I was.
 
The Huntington Beach years were fruitful, and Mitsubishi was very good to me. In 1994, they relocated my part of the business to Atlanta and offered me a nice package to go, including a sizeable cash bonus. At the time, I was trying to make a new relationship work and had fallen in love with California, so I declined the offer. I took a new job with a large corporation in Century City that entailed a sizeable salary increase, had a wonderful apartment in Marina del Rey, and was excited about the future. Taking that job, however, turned out to be a major mistake. They misrepresented what they wanted from me, and to make matters worse, the relationship with my girlfriend was soon on the rocks.
 
One night in October of 1994, I had dinner at LAX with my old boss from Mitsubishi Electric. He told me that the company had not yet filled my position, and that my old job was still mine if I wanted it and was willing to move to Atlanta. He could no longer offer me the bonus, but if I would relocate, they were prepared to pick up the moving expenses. The only hitch was I had to decide now, tonight. I extended my hand and he shook it. There, on a handshake in a bar in LAX, I had sealed my fate once again; this time I would head east. I quit my job in Century City with no small amount of relish and prepared for the arrival of the movers. The empty bottle of Pusser’s Rum went into the trash. The new transition bottle for the journey east was a Brillat Savarin VSOP Armagnac.
 
I was driving a Dodge pickup truck with a camper top, so space was not an issue this time around. In reality, I packed about the same amount of stuff as I did moving to New Hampshire in 1985, except I had a larger cooler in a corner of the truck-bed. There was a new stereo as well, with a pair of fine small Bose speakers. When the movers had emptied the apartment and left the marina, I went to San Diego to spend a few days with Steve. It was now early November, and I left for the East after a final breakfast at Steve’s apartment in Pacific Beach.
 
After two days of driving, I found myself at a hardscrabble motel in Pecos, Texas. In the morning, I checked out of the motel and went to a nearby restaurant for breakfast. The menu advertised a breakfast special, one large waffle with creamery butter and real maple syrup. That sounded great, so I ordered the special with a side of sausage and coffee. A small waffle emerged with two pats of frozen margarine and an individual serving of Log Cabin syrup in a sealed plastic container. I called the server back and said that this is not what I ordered. She went to leave and I said no, I did not want it, take it away. She did, and in a moment, there was a large commotion coming from the kitchen and I could hear heated voices arguing in Spanish. The sound of the tray and plate slamming against the wall came from within, and I took it as my signal to leave. I got up, dropped a five on the table, and left with alacrity. I drove down an exit and pulled off into a McDonalds for coffee and a breakfast sandwich.
 
That day I drove to Longview, Texas, a town east of Dallas. Somewhere near Longview the look of the hardwood trees reminded me that I was back in the East. My motel was in a dry county, but I bought a one day membership to a “club” that allowed me to buy a beer in the back room. I paid the dues and went in back to order a cheeseburger and a beer. I met some real cowboys in the bar there, they were heading back to Texas after a rodeo somewhere to the east. They were great people, warm and friendly, and it was a fun evening. The next day I drove to Meridian, Mississippi, and the next day I went on to Atlanta.
 
Mitsubishi Electric was located in an industrial park in Norcross, Georgia, a little to the north and east of Atlanta. Friends told me that the Post Corporation had many apartment buildings throughout the area, and I found one near work and quickly had the paperwork started on a new lease. The rental manager looked outside at my green truck and asked me if that vehicle was mine. I said it was. She picked up the application that lay in front of me on the desk and said “Sorry, we don’t rent to pickup truck owners.”  I thought it was a joke, but I quickly found out that it was not.
 
I found another non-Post property in Norcross and rented a two-bedroom unit on the first floor. Once again I found myself alone, preparing to sleep on the floor in an empty apartment. The sleeping bag and pad were still the same ones I had used in 1985. I set up the stereo and unloaded my small truckload into the apartment. I found a local FM station and, just as before, prepared myself for all the activities to come. There was a major difference this time around, I had the Mitsubishi family there, all the friends from California who had come east with the company on the initial move. After getting phone service and the other utilities set up, I had the furniture delivered and was soon having visitors and meeting new friends.
 
One night after dinner, a group of us sat at my dining table, the redwood picnic table purchased in Huntington Beach years before. I set the Armagnac down in the middle of the table along with some snifters. We finished that bottle, enjoying it neat in large cognac glasses. That night for the first time, I entertained a Scot who became a fast friend, Darrin. Later, when everyone had left, I put the glasses and plates in the sink and cleaned the table. I picked up the empty bottle and, keeping the tradition alive, took the Armagnac bottle and set it on one end of the mantle over the fireplace, where it stood for three years.
 
In November of 1997, I left Georgia for California. I was approaching 50 years of age, and had accepted a new job in Northern California; the plan entailed finding an apartment in Modesto, California. The movers emptied my apartment in Norcross and headed for another pickup before making their way out to the West. I spent my last night in Georgia with Brian and Juliana Illari at their house in Marietta, Georgia. I had met such great friends during my three years in Atlanta; life was indeed full. That last night in Georgia, Brian and I visited the fine liquor store that was close by his home; I bought a bottle for the trip, a 21-year-old Balvenie Port Wood single malt Scotch whisky. After aging in traditional oak casks, it is finished for several months in casks that have held fine port wine, a process that ends when the malt master says the Scotch is ‘complete’.  
 
After breakfast came a sad embrace and farewell, and I was off to the west again. This time I was driving a 4-cylinder Honda Accord station wagon. In the vehicle were the same supplies as that first trip to New Hampshire, except this time I carried more clothes. The first night I stopped in Vicksburg and got a place on a hill with a view to the west that overlooked the Mississippi River. I felt the passage of time and saw the ghosts of myself crossing the great river on previous trips.
 
I set out again, through Shreveport and into Texas, past Longview and Tyler, then past the multiple beltways around Dallas. I pressed on all the way to Abilene, and got a room at a tough motel near a restaurant. After emptying the car, I walked into the restaurant to eat. Five minutes later, I was pulling my car out of a takeout joint a mile down the road with fried chicken and sides. I enjoyed a good dinner in that strange room, hot fried chicken with fixings and a couple beers. For dessert, it was two aspirin and a healthy Scotch on the rocks as I watched TV until it was time to sleep.
 
The next morning I got an early start and headed west down I-20. I drove by Pecos and reached the I-10, which I followed up and over the Davis Mountains before coming down into the West and through Van Horn once again. I was making good time and kept pressing on hard; for the first time I would only spend one night in Texas, and that was fine with me. I pulled into Las Cruces, New Mexico, got a reasonable unit in a clean and quiet place, and enjoyed some takeout with a few beers alone in the room, and once again a Scotch with two aspirin for dessert.
 
The following day I drove to the I-8 and headed west. By doing this, I could take rte 95 north to the I-10 and bypass Phoenix. I spent the night in Blythe, California, on the western side of the Colorado River. I phoned my friend Frank at his home in Valley Springs, California. Frank was an old friend from the Connecticut days, and we had hooked up again in the years when I lived in Huntington Beach. His home was my destination, and we agreed to talk again the next day when I was closer. I left early on the morning of what would be the last and longest drive of the trip. I headed up rte 95 and drove past some nice country on the Colorado River. At I-40, I headed west to I-15 then left the interstate to take rte 58 across the high Mojave Desert. At Tehachapi, the road goes from 4000’ down to Bakersfield in the Great Central Valley. Turning north on rte 99, I pressed on to the north.
 
I called Frank and Diana from Merced. Even though I was now north of Fresno, I was already tired and unsure about completing the drive to his house. Frank was giving me directions that involved long distances through farming and rangeland at night. I stressed the point that I needed to stay on the highway as long as I could, and Diana got on the phone and gave me directions from Stockton on the 99. It was dark and I was a whipped puppy when I finally pulled into Valley Springs. Once there, a couple of warm hugs, followed by two excellent martinis and a home-cooked dinner, set the world back on an even keel. The lonesome nights spent alone on the road fell away as I reveled in an easy chair in the company of friends.
 
In the morning, Diana was gracious enough to take me on the hour-long drive into Modesto to help me find an apartment. We found a suitable place early that afternoon, a nice two-bedroom unit on the second floor. Then it began once more; the nights spent on the floor in the same sleeping bag as I listened to the stereo describe places and things unknown. I scheduled the movers, unpacked, hung the pictures and artwork, set up utilities, went shopping, and began to find my way around a new town. And made some new friends as well. 
 
That was eleven years ago, and at my home in Modesto in 2008, and the empty 21-year-old Balvenie Scotch bottle is still with me. The years of corporate moves are at an end, and when I hold that bottle in my hand, I can remember the night I bought it, and think of the close friends left behind in Georgia. I remember all of the trips, the lonely nights spent in distant and scattered motel rooms, and the nights spent on the floors of new apartments. I remember the stress, uncertainty, and the self-doubt. I can smile at what I have accomplished over those years, the obstacles I have overcome, the friends I made along the way, and the myriad of wonderful things I experienced because of those moves.
 
The empty bottle remains in its spot on the shelf, where it can speak to me of the past and beguile me with memories in the years to come.