It is not the act of moving from one place to another, or the activities surrounding one, that marks it as memorable. It is the reason for the move, and the changes in our lives resulting from it. We have had 3 such moves.
It's not the act of moving that makes one memorable..
The first was in 1970 when Patty, my wife of one year, encouraged me to quit my job to finish college. We had waited until she graduated from nursing school before marrying. I had quit junior college due to a less than exemplary record of academic achievements. I was the junior of two employees on the shipping/receiving dock at IBM in San Jose. When the senior guy got “promoted” to deliveryman for the packages we received – I decided Patty was right and so quit. We bought a VW bug, toured Europe in it then moved to Sacramento, buying a small townhouse a short bike ride from school – all on one years’ savings – times were certainly different.
The Junior college granted my petition to strip my transcript of grades lower than “C” giving me a fresh start. Being 23 and married I was both older and wiser than my fresh-out-of-high-school classmates, so I did well, most probably because I attended classes, read the books and did the homework. Three years later I had a degree in Accounting and a job with a CPA firm in Sacramento. The most miserable job I ever had.
The second move, two years later, was necessitated by my assignment to Los Angeles to begin a new career in government. We considered this move the beginning of whatever our new life was to become. We’d been married 6 years, our first born was 18 months old and we – the royal we – were pregnant (although my part in that endeavor was long past). I had learn a new career field, Patty had to find a job, we had no friends or family to support us or to help us find a house, doctors, dentists or day care; we were starting completely over and it was exciting.
While we felt we were moving forward, we were also escaping. My father, a stereotypical old-time Italian, kept a Big Thumb on his family; the reason I left home in the first place. We had the only grandchild on either side and we lived between both sets of grandparents. So, we got lots of unannounced and, sometimes, unwelcomed visits. By moving, we escaped those confinements and began developing lives of our own.
Life in Los Angeles was good. We made new friends as a couple and we loved living in the Conejo Valley town of Thousand Oaks. But I had a 60 – 90 minute commute each way. Patty had to work swing shift so we could minimize day care expenses. Saturdays were devoted to chores, shopping, yard and house work and resting. So, the only real family time was Sundays; I could never get home for kids games or to otherwise help during the week.
Our last move was to Fresno. When told I had been transferred to Fresno my first thought was, who have I made mad? Like so many, my impression of Fresno was of gas stations, auto wrecking yards and run-down motels where the rooms mostly rented out by the hour to the “ladies” strolling out front. However, everyone I spoke to who had actually lived here told me they liked it and would move back. So, we took a leap of faith and moved again.
This move made life easier, better; well-worth giving up southern California which was, really, just better weather. We gained a slower, less crowded life style. My work became more interesting; Patty could work days and our children were exposed to a more diverse and realistic environment than in Thousand Oaks, where the WalMart parking lot was full of Mercedes Benz and Rolls Royce’s.
One move for education; one to start a new career and an independent life of our own; and finally, one to improve our lifestyle. All good choices and therefore memorable.