I’ve spent over 80% of my life in or associated with the military – for those not in the know, that means I moved a LOT.
I started off as a military brat (my dad retired from the US Air Force) which meant that we moved when he was transferred. So, during my formative years, I lived in six different places (including Germany) and attended seven schools before I left “home”.
Then I up and joined the US Navy as a nuclear engineer on submarines. While in the Navy, as is typical, I transferred from station to station causing me to have eleven more “homes.” After I retired 20+ years later, I figured I was done moving.
I went back to the area of my sister and folks. While in my hometown I actually lived in two different places: a mobile home near my folks and, finally, with my wife, Mariel, whom I met and married after my retirement.
I married into the house since Mariel already owned it. At this point I decided that I was done – my new “home” is where I would die. No – I don’t mean that I’d commit suicide; I meant that I was done moving.
Twelve years later something has happened; I now think that it would be neat to travel full time.
So where is my home? Wherever Mariel is! Even in an RV wandering about North America. So, go figure, I guess I’m not done after all.