Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

I have an acute case of gypsy feet right now. This isn’t a new malady; in fact, I’ve used the term for years to describe what others see as a dreaded experience.

I love to move. Really.

And I’ve done it 34 times. No, my parents weren’t in the military. They weren’t on the lam either. My mother was a single parent long before it was common; and, if she got a better job offer, we moved. If an even better one came along, we moved again. I went to five grade schools and two high schools.

By the time I left home for good, moving was routine. Part of the charm was the chance to decorate a new apartment or house or condo. And for almost fifty years I moved at least every two to three years on average. That is a lot of empty boxes from the supermarket!

But since moving to St. Joseph, Michigan, in 2000, I’ve tended to stay put for longer. Today is the ten year anniversary of when we moved into our current home. It feels strange.