Reboot

Have you ever wished you could reboot your life? Get a do-over? A mulligan?

One of the benefits of moving to a new location is you get to start over. Change your life or lifestyle. If you want. That is the kicker. You are who you are. However, if you don’t like a part of your life—for me, at one time it was too much volunteering—you can be more selective at your new location. You can even change your name, as our daughter did when we moved during her sixth grade.

We moved into our new house last week and I feel like a different person. Re-energized. The new house is bright and airy, has a lot of light. Of course the last might be because we don’t have the drapes up yet. LOL I’ve found that I do better in light, which makes choosing to live in Michigan with its gray winter skies a little strange. If it wasn’t for the grandkids.

Speaking of the grandkids (I never miss an opportunity ) they are so excited that Nana and Papa live nearby. The 3 ½ year-old wants to stay overnight. His 6-year-old sister likes the “new” toys I found while packing, especially the Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls Hubs’ grandmother made. I like the fact that we’re less than 20 minutes away instead of 2 hours.

When starting over in a new town, everything takes time. Time to find the post office, stores, doctors, dentists, everything. In a way, the one year search for a house followed by the seven months after we made the decision to build helped us know the area. We drove over often to look at areas, houses, then to watch the progress as our house was being built. Thanks to the Garmin, we learned our way around our new town. With family here, we already have recommendations for doctors and a dentist.

The only thing left is unpacking boxes and finding the right space for everything from our old life. Rebooting one’s life doesn’t mean leaving everything behind. Now if money were no object… Nah. I wouldn’t totally change our old life. Well, maybe some new furniture.

Moving Day is Here!

At last! Not everyone is excited about moving—esp. over a hundred miles away. I used to be one of those people. Each time Hubs’ job took us away from the familiar, I cried. Not this time. I am so geeked (is that still a word?) I haven’t stopped grinning this morning as we wait for the movers to get here. Never mind that Hubs and I are exhausted from packing, we are both very happy today has finally arrived.

Instead of moving away from the home we’ve lived in for almost fourteen years, we’re moving to the Lake Michigan shoreline. After living near Kalamazoo years ago, I always wanted to retire in West Michigan. The atmosphere is different. Good different. Very conservative, which this liberal doesn’t mind—too much. I know I’m making generalizations, but there’s a genuineness (no pretenses) among the residents. Values like mine.

We looked for a house for nearly a year before giving up. We were being quite picky about finding a Goldilocks house—one that was just right. Unlike our other moves where we took the best available, we took our time. Finally, we decided to build. What an experience. I mean that in the best possible way. Our builder has been great. His staff is so pleasant and helpful. His sub-contractors, proud of their work and happy to tell us what they were doing. Hubs, with his engineering background, asked nine million questions and the subs were only too pleased to answer. As with most things in life, unless money is no object, we didn’t get everything we wanted. But this is our Goldilocks house where we hope to live out the rest of your years.

Now I’ve saved the best part of this move for the last. We’re moving to the same town where our grandchildren live. If I thought I was geeked, it’s nothing compared to a six-year-old and her three and a half-year-old brother. They can’t wait. Not to diminish our love for our daughter and her husband, the appeal of West Michigan is greatly enhanced by being close to the grandkiddies. As I wrote in my post yesterday at The Rosesof Prose blog, my grandchildren bring me such joy. I’ve enjoyed every aspect of their lives. From cuddling them as babies (still cuddling them) to watching their first steps and marveling at their growing vocabulary and logic, I’m constantly amazed. Yet they don’t have to do anything, just be there, to fill my heart with love and peace.

Because of the move today and the cable company’s schedule, I won't be back online until Friday. Possibly sooner when I find the McDonald’s or a coffee shop with free internet. So I probably won’t reply to your comments right away but know that I will read and enjoy them.

Move is a 4-letter Word

When I mentioned my up-coming move, a friend understood the difficulty and her comment provided the title of this post. This will be my eighth move since leaving my parents’ house, which technically makes it my ninth. And one I’m really looking forward to. That wasn’t the case for several others.

My first move was the shortest. While it was the best move, I can’t say it was the easiest. Our troop of friends and relatives carried my belongings from my apartment on the third floor across the parking lot to my new husband’s, also on the third floor. The next best move was to our new first house. Thrilling and scary at the same time. Scary because we were taking on a mortgage. Holy cow. We were grown-ups now. Thrilling because this was our home. Not our parents, not an apartment complex—our home.

The next five moves came about because of Hubs’ job. At first it was an adventure. Still, we were leaving family and friends. While it was my job to keep up morale with the kids, I cried silently as we drove out of Michigan. It then became an adventure again. Each move I thought would be our last. Wrong. But our family was together. As I told the kids each time, home is where we are all together. They weren’t happy (what an understatement) about moving in high school, yet they met their life-long friends in the new school and daughter met her husband there. I made good friends and became very involved in the community. Maybe I became complacent and Fate decided to shake me up. Another move and the kids weren’t coming with us. My family wouldn’t be together. Anger, tears. Poor Hubs didn’t know what he’d find when he came home on weekends. Like many who move because of a spouse’s job, I sucked it up.

By then, I knew nothing was permanent. We didn’t bother with 30-year mortgages anymore. Five-year ARMs were fine. We wouldn’t be there that long anyway. We weren’t. Two and a half years later we moved again. That was our shortest stay. Having been uprooted so many times, I didn’t get invested in the new community. I had friends on one side of the state and family on the other with us in the middle. I had my writing and writers' group. I didn’t need anything else. Besides, we would probably move again. I just had to wait for that shoe to fall. Wouldn’t you know this has been the longest stay—over thirteen years.

After all those moves, why am I looking forward to this one? First, it’s close to our daughter and her family—our only grandchildren. Second, it’s where we always wanted to retire. Third, we’ll be moving into a brand new house. Not someone else’s where we’ll have to repaint, tear down wallpaper, add a fence for the dog, etc. We’ll move into a house designed the way we want it, painted with colors we chose. Sure there were compromises we had to make because of cost. But this will be a house suited to us. More exciting than our first house. And this one will be our last.

For four months we’ve watched the progress as concepts on paper turned into reality. From an empty lot to a hole in the ground to what looks like a finished house—on the outside. Inside is another story. Still a little rough. The builder tells us we’ll be able to move in the first of September. From the progress we’ve seen so far, I’m inclined to believe him.

In previous moves, a horde of professional movers descended on the house then packed our belongings and loaded the truck in three days. We don’t have that luxury this time. As Hubs and I pack, we’re deciding what goes with us and what finds a new home—garage sale or trash. More than a little daunting. So I’d better get off the computer and . . .

Pack is a 4-letter word.