Leaving on a Jet Plane

Disclosing to people that we are moving to Honolulu with the military has elicited responses similar to the grieving process:

1) Denial- e.g. "You can NOT be serious! or "I did not even know there was still a military presence in Hawaii after that whole Pearl Harbor debacle!"

2) Anger or Spite- e.g. "You know, it's so expensive there, you will be reduced to peasant living- eating only rice and macademia nuts, living in a shantytown hovel."

3) Bargaining- e.g. My mom agreed to lend her real estate savvy to our Hawaiian house hunt if we conceded to bring her along as our elderly au pair. And we agreed to this baragain.
4) Depression- I mournfully envision life without Dunkin Donuts, Todd Pruitt's preaching and Kulp family dinners,  while Eowyn consoles herself with the promise of (Hawaiian) chocolate covered pretzels, her comfort food du jour.

5) Acceptance- Friends, family and relative strangers (truly) began to plan their vacations in our Pacific isle home. A Fourth of July Luau is thrown to bid us farewell and we invest in sunblock, Hawaii Five-O season one and children's valium for the interminable flight.

To say the move preparation was stressful would be like conceding that the Titanic was not much of a pleasure cruise.  If there was a complication to be considered, it befell us. If there was an assurance given, it betrayed us. If there was an unforeseen delay, it entrapped us. In short, due to superfluous and mundane administrative details, the military provided zero assistance and we were compelled to pack up our entire (2500 sq.ft) home by ourselves in five short days, and then load our household of possessions onto a mover's glorified pick-up truck for repeated, Jed Clampett-like trips to a storage facility.

In the end, we stole away in the night, like Philadelphian refugees, nearly missing our sunrise flight due to disinformation and the tedious scrutiny of Caid's Pediasure by TSA officers. Fortunately, Kincaid poses only a general threat to my sanity and little to our national security and we were released to run like boarder-hopping emigrants to our gate, arriving with our cumbersome car seats, sweaty and breathless children (who were also made to run) and seven, over-sized carry-ons.  We were not a welcome sight.

There is more to relay as there always is in the life of one who attracts "drama" like it's an occupation.  However, suffice to say, it has grieved us to bid adieu to those who hold our affection.  I will even miss my Asian dry cleaner who blasts Christian radio broadcasts over the drum of his steam cleaners, gives me Korean moon pies every Christmas and has lovingly laundered all of my Lilly through six years of broken English transactions.  Arguably, one can survive without the best coffee and munchkins around, without Homegoods or Marshalls, without courture consignment stores or aggressive drivers, and without the Kimmel Center or Mack N Mancos; however, there is no satisfactory substitute for my sisters' fashion scrutiny or my brother's baseball bravado or my mom's company for cut-throat garage saling or my dad's cunning wisdom and cuddling with my kids. So, while we may have already left, we'll most assuredly be back again. . . on a jet plane.