Until now, I have never lived in one place for too long. My daddy, before he retired from the Air Force and my late husband’s profession caused us to relocate, time and again, every four years. Once, when we did live in the same area for eight years, halfway through, we moved from the city to the country. My oldest, when in high school, was jokingly asked by one of his friends if he thought his parents would ever give up their nomadic lifestyle and finally settle down.
Moving was always an adventure. Besides the headache of packing and unpacking and finding those two ever-so-important-people in your life, your doctor and your hairdresser (you might think I’m joking about the later, but I’m not) it was downright fun. Living in the North, the South, the Midwest, and both coasts, there were so many interesting people around every corner to meet and wonderful friendships that were waiting to grow. Becoming part of the culture where we were transplanted—from taking on the local accents and vernacular, to adopting sports teams as our own—we enjoyed life, seeing the possibilities and the adventures, always in the present. But when my late husband passed away, as if someone had drawn an indelible line from the sky to the ground, we began to see everything through the lens of before and after.