Come out and play," I pleaded with my friend last Saturday. She held fast. Moving in just a month, she had vowed to keep packing until everything was in a box or piled in corners for the big sale.
     "I should help you," I said half-heartedly.
     "Well, at least you offered, "she said, even though I really hadn’t. The thought of Bubble-wrapping glassware makes me less than a good friend.
     When my husband and I moved into our previous home 18 years ago, I announced it was my last relocation. It had been so much work, I said, the only way I’d leave was in a body bag. In spite of my declaration, we pulled up stakes five and a half years ago in favor of a one-level twin home.
     Recently, we’ve been on the downsizing bandwagon once again; we look at condos but all I can see is the inevitable—sorting, discarding, loading—and I lose interest.
     I have changed my abode so many times it would take all ten toes and fingers to tabulate. The first time was right before kindergarten when I waved good-bye to the second floor of the Saint Paul duplex owned by my grandfather and said farewell to my cousins who lived downstairs. In our new house in Minneapolis, a block from Lake Harriet, we would have two stories, a basement rec room, and a big back yard. A perfect place to play with the new friends my sister, brother, and I made as we scouted the neighborhood.
     Eight years later, we started over again. My father had graduated from law school; with five kids now, we needed a bigger house close to downtown where Dad would open his firm. Once again, we made new friends.
     As a newlywed and young mother, I got the show on the road more times than I can remember. Let me think: three places near the University campus, three in Bloomington, an upper duplex near Lake Harriet, a lower near the river. Not to mention, the other end of the world, New Jersey. Apartments, townhouses, duplexes, single family homes. You name it, I’ve moved in and out of it.
     It used to be exciting, an adventure. "Movin' on up," The Jefferson’s television theme song called it. I became an expert packer. "Put paper plates between your china dishes," I always advised friend s who were about to move. "That way, they won’t break and you’ll have something for the pizza you feed your helpers."
     All these moves came to mind when I took a writing class at Normandale College. We studied Maya Angelou’s book, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. "The theme is homelessness, longing for a place to belong," the instructor told us. Is that what I’d been looking for? I wondered. A place that felt like home?
     I’ve got some paper plates around here someplace. I should head over to my friend’s house and help her pack. Ride with her to her new residence and make sure she feels at home. Maybe even scout the neighborhood and help her meet some friends, too. Just so I don’t catch the wanderlust bug. Once I do, it’s hard to shake.