"it's a 'two-parter', mom": part two: the adventure of staying put

After living in our new-to-us house here in Minneapolis for three years (been married for four years by that time), I came home from grocery shopping and told Elliot:

"It's time for us to move. I just saw two people that I know at Cub Foods."

I felt very urgent about this--like a spy whose cover has been blown. I wanted to move like right that second. I don't know why exactly, but it just weirded me out. It made me feel--exposed.

Our prolonged-working-real-life-honeymoon was up.

We weren't visitors anymore. We weren't anonymous. People knew us.

We were settling down. We were gettin' domestic.

It was unnerving.

At the time, I didn't want to be a local. I hadn't planned on being a Minnesotan--these people don't hug and say 'bag' funny--in fact, they use the word 'bag' instead of the word 'sack' and look at me funny when use the word 'sack'.

Our three year tour was up and it was time to move.

I was sure of it.

Elliot wasn't so sure.

As someone who grew up close to family and in same area his whole life, he was just digging-in to our new situation. He wanted to be all 'sure-you-can-borrow-a-cup-of-sugar' neighborly n' stuff.

And I wasn't so sure about that.

We decided my jitters were due to my military upbringing and that I should hold out on the idea of getting the heck out of Dodge for a bit and push through year four. After that we could evaluate.

So this is the adventure of staying put...

What I came to realize that, while a professed extrovert, I didn't know how to live with/around/near others for prolonged amounts of time. Call it youth, immaturity, whatever, but I didn't know how to be married, away from my parents, but have connections.

Sure we had made friends here, we had a church family here, but I didn't know how to be a neighbor.

In the military, because every one's in the same situation (that the place you all are in isn't your 'real' home), you had immediately something in common. And, yes, we were invested in each other, knowing that some our strongest ties throughout our lives will be these friends/neighbors we'd most likely never see again (until 'The Book of Faces' came along).

But it's just not the same as living on the same block with other people for years and years and seeing their lives unfold in the mundane and significant. And most importantly making a conscience decision to just not be people who live side by side, but to be friends and be a part of their lives. To actually borrow a cup of sugar, to ask for them to water your plants when you're gone on vacation, to have an impromptu backyard dinner party, or snow-blow their part of the sidewalk because you can.

Elliot taught me how to be a neighbor.

He taught me how not to hide or be anonymous. He reaches out--it's a gift of his--being so personable and approachable and helpful.

It took me a while, I feel, to come out of my shell (which really is ironic because I work in the public and usually see them in their underwear as they try on clothes) and not be envious of his ease with our neighbors, but to join him, follow his lead.

He loves and gives so effortlessly. He mends fences (literally), chases birds out of chimneys, shovels walks, installs headlights, helps with all sorts of projects and car issues, he knows all the dogs (and most of their owners) in a two block radius by name, he lugs us to basketball pancake fundraisers for a family he's met on his innumerable walks with Sadie (our dog), he picks up trash, and chats with those doing yard work. He's a great neighbor and he is because that's just him.

This is one of his greatest gifts--especially to me.

And his neighborly-ness is contagious and spurs us all on to love, befriend, and help each other. It's like we've all decided that this is how you 'do' neighborly and are committed to it. Myself (now) included.

And those things I listed above--the borrowing of sugar, the watering of plants, impromptu backyard parties--that happens in our neighborhood.

'Does Louis need shoes? Here have a bag-full because my son's out-grown them.'

'Wanna come over for dinner?'

'Sure! I'll bring the watermelon!.'

It's kind of awesome.

"it's a 'two-parter', mom": part one: the adventure of staying put

Oklahoma, Kansas, Alabama, California, Japan, Maryland, Germany, Texas, Indiana and now Minnesota are all places I've called 'home' since I was born.

With my dad in the Air Force we moved every three to four years. I loved moving and I was good at it. I loved packing (although admittedly, my mom probably did most of the packing now that I think about it) and I loved unpacking and setting up my new room. I was good at making friends and being excited about being in new places.

I felt very aware that this was unique and something to be cherished. Not everyone has climbed Mount Fuji when they were 10 years old or been excused from school to march in a protest at 12 in our nation's capital or spent their 16th birthday in Paris on a school trip with some of their best friends. I felt I was living in a storybook. I loved it.

I loved that I could 'start again' with each school I attended, each place we moved. I could reinvent myself. I could be mysterious. I could quietly (or not quietly) be the object of interest for a spell because nobody knew me but maybe they wanted to.

And that place, too, could be mysterious to me and have a chance to be something different because of how I perceived it. And I relished its unfamiliarity and loved getting to know it--full of wonder and knowing it just long enough to truly appreciate it and never too long to take it for granted.

I loved how my family held the center. Wherever we were, I knew that home was where my mom, my dad, my sister, and my brother were. That was the constant. That was the sun my world revolved around and as a long as we still quoted 'What About Bob?' and had beef stroganoff on Mondays, everything would be fine. And it was.

Did I cry as the plane took off from Frankfurt knowing that I may never go back to Germany when we moved to Texas at the tail-end of my junior year in high school?

Yes.

I bawled. That was very hard.

By the time we landed in Texas was I ready for a new adventure?

Yes. With a tight throat and smudged mascara, humming along to Weezer in my discman I knew it was going to be difficult at first, but great.

Have I ever wished that we only lived in one place and I grew up with the same friends I had in kindergarten through high school and lived in the same house?

No.

Never.

So imagine my surprise when my husband, our little black dog and I bought our first house in Minneapolis two years after we were married with all intentions of fixing it up and moving on in five years and now 11 years later--we're still in the same house, in the same city, and have populated said house with three beings that have sprung from my body.

What then? What is the adventure in staying put?