Never Say Never

I love change. Change is good. I could have written the book Who Moved My Cheese?. The more years I accumulate in my lifetime, the more I appreciate the beauty of change. And so it’s no surprise when every now and then I wake-up and realize I’m ready for another.

I love my house. It’s old but charming and sturdy. I loved it more when the Joneses lived next door. When Magnus chased people out of the yard. When people who looked like me came to visit. I’d planned to live here until the mortgage is paid off, but when my middle name is change, it’s not totally unpredictable that I’m thinking of moving.

My house in Potlatch is 17 miles from Moscow. It’s not “on the way” or “right around the corner” from the people I love…and who love me. I never hear the words, “I thought I’d drop in,” any more. *sigh* And, it doesn’t help that a barrel of oil now costs a left cornea and a first born child.

In San Diego, a seventeen mile drive is ridiculously close to everything. There are probably two Targets, fourteen Starbucks, and nine In & Out Burgers in a twenty mile radius. I’m still having a difficult time adjusting to the perceived “distance” from Moscow to Potlatch. I make the drive twice a day – but most folks think they have to pack a lunch to make the trip. Granted, there is *nothing* between here and there. Well, except pine trees and large bambi-like animals.

I’m just saying, if the people won’t come to me…I’ll have to find a house near the people.

The thought of *just* tossing all my worldly goods in to the back of a pick-up truck makes me throw up a little in my mouth. I confess, I am a meticulous mover. First I have to go to the basement and dust off the rows of paint cans and figure out which one goes where. I have the paint…just not enough motivation to actually do it. The next step is purging the stuff that’s accumulated in nooks and crannies all over the house. Said with my hands on my hips and my neckbones snapping, “I do not need all this stuff.”

And then…I pack. Everything, and I mean EVERYTHING must be in a box. With tape. And labels. Or a garbage bag. With labels.

And then…I put my house on the market and look for one in Moscow. A small house. I’m making the list and praying for my next house. All I’m saying is, I love my house. I’m not completely ready to leave it, and I intend to wait until the right one comes along. There’s nothing worse than moving in and being miserable for the rest of your life. Are we still talking about houses?

Anyway, pray for me. It’ll take me about a year to get it all done. Unless of course you want to RSVP to the painting & purging party – then we can get this show on the road a lot sooner.


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