Roots

I went to a Mary Kay party last night, where I overheard part of a conversation in which two women discovered that one’s mother had been the preschool teacher of the other’s husband. As it turns out, most of the women there grew up in this area.

I don’t get that. I know there are people who live and die in the same town, but I just can’t imagine it.

The longest I’ve ever lived anywhere was 13 years in Goldsboro, NC. I moved four times in that time. I lived for 19 years in Michigan, but that was spread out over three towns, and none of them were close to extended family. We visited my grandparents frequently, much more so than my kids have been able to. I’ve never lived in one house for more than ten years (that one was the first house I remember).

These friends of mine are normal well-adjusted people who have managed to live in the same area their whole lives. Their families are here. They see people they went to high school with, and in some cases go to church with their old teachers. I barely remember people I went to high school with.

Now that we’re out of the military, I’m hoping the nomad in us won’t kick in again. I’d like to stay for a while, put down roots, and actually be a lasting part of the community. I want my kids to remember the people they go to high school with and to have a place to come home to on long weekends and holidays.

OK, the biggest reason is that I don’t want to move my library again any time soon!

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