Then, I thought, the movers jumped into action. I thought they piled into a waiting helicopter and cruised swiftly through the clouds to the president-elect's residence, unsmiling as they faced each other on cramped benches, each of them lost in thought over the grim and delicate mission ahead. Maybe one of them would crack a joke to lighten the tension. I thought they rappelled down the side of the president-elect's residence at night to the "Mission: Impossible" theme song, swung in through the windows, swarmed through the house with infrared lights on their heads, threw protective pads on the furniture, packed everything up in an efficient blur, then airlifted it all onto the hovering helicopters that sped the unit and the president-elect's belongings - some of them possibly strapped to the roof - back to Washington, D.C. I thought they did all this without breaking anything. It startled me to see that in reality the man who was about to become the most powerful person moved, more or less, just like you and me. Well, okay, not JUST like you and me. I didn't see in the photo any of the president-elect's pals carrying big old stereo speakers down the steps. And, true, he wasn't pictured loading a bed frame onto a borrowed truck. There wasn't a U-Haul anywhere in sight. And, I seriously doubt that he and his family had to drive across country, bunking down in an Econo Lodge outside of some podunk town along the way.

Still, even if this was nothing more than a photo op and the president-elect didn't lift a finger to help, the very fact that the soon-to-be most powerful man on the planet is moved into his new home by regular moving guys - guys that you or I might hire to do our moving, guys with big bellies wearing T-shirts - well, you just have to feel good about a country like that. Or discomfited about it. I'm not sure which.