Ash’s folks came up for the afternoon today, to hang out and get a gander at the bitchen furniture they got us for Christmas, which now resides in our living room. It was terrific to see them, but it made me miss my parents, who now live 2,000 miles away…which is actually closer than when they lived in Kenya, but you know…it’s not like you can just drop by or meet halfway in Malibu for dinner.

The generational migratory patterns of Americans are strange. If you think about it, my parents’ generation was the first in history to scrap the assumption that where you were born was where you’d end your days. Before that, you maybe went away to college, but then you came back home and took over the family business. There were exceptions, of course–military families, mass emigrations from Europe due to famine–but for the most part, when someone said, “Where ya from?” you didn’t have to think too hard about the answer.

But not the Boomers, man. I had moved 7 times by the time I was nine years old, with 4 different elementary schools in the mix…and that was before we moved overseas and I was shucked off to boarding school. (Just a little joke, Mom, in case you’re reading this.) Since then, my folks have relocated 4 more times and will be moving to a [hopefully] permanent residence in the spring, and I have drifted in and out of more living environments than I can actually count. The condo we bought almost 2 years ago is the longest I have lived in any one place in 15 years. That is weird…but I wouldn’t trade it, since I can’t really imagine the alternative.

For me, all this packing and unpacking has resulted in two warring compulsions: I long to put down roots in a community where I know everybody and we boss each others’ kids, drop in unannounced, and vote for each other for local public office; and I also get the itch to pack it all up and shove off for maybe not greener, but definitely different, pastures right about the time it’s getting interesting. I don’t know how to reconcile these polar instincts.