A friend of mine recently blogged that he and his family had been living in the same place for something like nine or ten years now, and it seems like home. I know what he means. Lisa and I are in the process of moving into our little cottage from our condo half an hour south. We realized we'd lived in the condo for nearly nine years. That kind of stability is a rare thing for us.
My long-suffering wife was an Air Force brat and survived multiple moves, including giving up her senior year in Florida in order to be an outsider in Massachusetts when her father was transferred. Not fun at all. Marrying me seemed like it would be a time of living in a couple-three places until we were out of school, then settling down.
But no, I am not a stable person, and our itinerary of living places is now up to eighteen (18). Every time the Criminal Records Check showed up at my job, it would be time to shove off again. Although this move is just across town, it is still a move. And we like our new place a lot. And we're not inclined to move any more. And we aren't going to, either, unless God tells us to, and presents three forms of photo I.D. as well. One can't be too whimsical.
We both feel confident that we can call the Carenen Cottage home. It just feels like it. Of course, there is that nice, wooded lot up on the mountain with the fantastic view stretching out below. And sometimes we think about driving by just to see if it's been sold yet (It hasn't). And, well, never mind. We're staying. After all, the dog and two cats like it just fine where we are, and that's final.
