Most Americans went shopping the day after Thanksgiving. Not us. We rented a U-Haul truck.

Holiday shopping gets a bad rap for beating you down to the nubbins, but say what you will, spending money in a crowd is a lot more fun than hauling household goods in a 14-footer.

A word of advice to the kids: If you have your druthers, rent bouncy houses for the holidays, not trucks.

When I say we rented a truck, I speak broadly. Actually, it was Cheryl. She had a bit of family business to take care of in San Francisco.

Technically, I was off the hook. Cheryl said she would manage things with the help of her sons.

A husband of noble character might have insisted that he be part of the U-Haul adventure. Do not worry, little lady. I will drive the big truck over the Golden Gate Bridge. I will fight for control as powerful winds sweep in from the Pacific. I will do this heroic thing for you.

But I am not particularly of noble character. I did not insist. In fact, I counted my lucky stars that I was free to stay home and do something fun.

Cheryl confided that the move made her nervous. She had never driven a boxy truck. She worried that the controls wouldn’t fit a small person.

Pish, I said. I’m sure U-Haul cabs work for all body sizes. Women are surely a big piece of the truck rental market. Have you ever seen a sign at U-Haul saying you must be “this tall” to rent one?

And besides, the cab only holds three people. If I went along, one of your sons would have to stay home. Would that be fair to him?

Because of the holiday, we got to pick the truck up the day before Thanksgiving. In this instance, we means we. Cheryl asked that I drive it home for her.

The truck sat in front of the house during turkey day, a looming reminder of the daunting task that awaited.

While preparing the stuffing, Cheryl inquired if I had any fresh thoughts about being part of the next day’s move. Actually, no, I said.

While making the apple pie, Cheryl checked in again. U-Haul?

It will be a piece of cake, I said. You’ll master the intricacies of driving a big truck before you hit Novato.

Just never forget, I said, that you’ll be essentially driving blind. You’ll have no awareness of what’s behind you or on either side of you unless you learn to read your side mirrors. Your life will depend on it.

Thank heavens your sons are riding shotgun. They can help determine when it’s safe to change lanes.

Inwardly, I wasn’t so confident. What if Cheryl has an accident because I wasn’t U-Hauling with her? On the other hand, committing to the San Francisco move would mean giving up a chance to spend Friday with my visiting daughter.

You and Jenny do need time together, Cheryl agreed. If only the truck lurking beside the house weren’t such a monster.

Friday morning dawned sunny. Cheryl fortified herself and her sons with hearty breakfasts for their U-Hauling.

Jenny and I slept in. We had no need to rush things. We were planning a leisurely breakfast Upvalley.

Before firing up the truck, Cheryl scooted the bench seat as far forward as it would go. Her sons’ long legs folded until their knees blocked their faces.

Jenny and I stood on the curb. We wanted to wave goodbye before heading out for our morning of leisure.

With a turn of the ignition, the truck rumbled to life. Nine miles per gallon never felt so powerful.

You’ll do fine, I yelled. Stay calm and all will go well.

The windshield wipers began wiping.

Oops. Wrong control.

The hood to the engine popped open.

Another wrong control.

Finally they roared off.

Jenny and I had a lovely morning eating pastries, drinking coffee and catching up on things. Occasionally my mind wandered. Hope they’re doing OK.

The day passed without any word. Five hours. Six hours. Seven.

Then I heard the rumble. With Cheryl still behind the wheel, the U-Haul roared up, then deftly backed into the driveway.

The truck was loaded to the gills with an astonishing amount of furniture and junk. So vast a heap, I may never get my garage parking space back.

Sweaty and exhausted, Cheryl climbed down from the cab. I hardly recognized her. This was not my old Cheryl. This was trucker Cheryl.

Mission accomplished, she said.

Kevin can be reached at 256-2217 or Napa Valley Register,  P.O. Box 150, Napa 94559 or kcourtney@napanews.com