Papa Was A Rolling Stone

By the time I was in the third grade, I'd already lived in five states, crossed the country several times (including a trip through the desert in a car with no air conditioning in the middle of the day), been to four schools, and owned eight dogs. Even as an eight year old, you sound more than a little worldy when you're talking to someone who's never left the county and you're telling stories about a girl you met at a truck stop once in Missouri.



Whenever people hear about my rambling youth, the first question they invariably ask is, "So, was your father in the military?" Unfortunately, I don't have that simple of an answer. I usually just tell them that it wasn't so much that my parents had a good reason to move, as much as they didn't have a better reason not to. That usually satisfies them. It just seems far too complicated to go into the litany of reasons from my father selling bibles door to door, to his working for a manufacturing firm, to working for a seminary. When I was a kid, I often thought it would have been easier to just say, yeah, he's a fighter pilot.

The truth is more complicated, of course. It always is. In fact, I really only know some of the story. I remember some of his jobs and some of the reasons for our moves, but there are houses I remember that I can't remember why we were there, and there are jobs I remember that I can't remember where we lived.

What I do remember, is that I was always happy. It's true. I had an idyllic childhood. We were a tight family unit and I always felt loved and safe. We didn't have a large extended family who lived down the street, or with whom we enjoyed Sunday dinners. Even when we finally settled in Eastern Pennsylvania, we lived 1200 miles from our nearest blood relative. We were on our own.

Frankly, I don't know if it would have been any different if we'd lived down the street from every relative we had. We were a pretty insular family. My parents didn't have many friends and if it hadn't been for church, we would have no social life whatsoever. I'm not complaining. It's just how it was. At the time, I really didn't think about it.

A few years ago, I even wrote an article about it called, "I'm Not From Here" that was published in New Jersey Monthly. It was about feeling at home nowhere and everywhere, all at once. And it's true. I believe that my childhood prepared me to accept change better than most people. I am comfortable in my own skin, enjoy my own company, and can amuse myself for hours if not days. I don't feel connected to any one place, but I am fiercly loyal to my family.

I saw the movie "Garden State" recently and the main character reflects at one point, "Maybe all I miss is the idea of home. Maybe that's all family really is, a group of people who miss the same imaginary place."

I wonder.