Lord, I Was Born A Ramblin’ Man

For someone who’s never been known as a roustabout, I certainly seem to do my share of moving about. The Mrs. and I have been happy as clams in our Worthington home after moving back here from Mankato about three years ago. But here we are, boxing up our belongings and moving again — not out of town, thankfully, but across town.
I counted it up. Since we tied the wedding knot in 1979, Sandy and I have lived in eight different homes, and by the end of this month we’re about to make it nine. We didn’t plan it this way, of course. Few people do. Moving just happens to us.
When we moved into our second Worthington home (during our first stint in town), we thought it would be our last place. When we moved into our Mankato townhome, we thought we were home to stay. Returning to Worthington in 2013, we thought we were home for good again. But as much as we enjoy it, we decided recently that it’s a bigger place than two empty-nesters need, and with all the landscaping there is to care for, we concluded it might be time to downsize a bit.
And so we are.
The Allman Brothers Band once had a hit with a song called, “Ramblin’ Man,” and now I feel like a genuine ramblin’ man myself. Me, who no one ever thought was a ramblin’ kind of guy.
Moving from one house to another is a weird experience, let me tell you. In our case, it has become a great excuse for getting rid of stuff. Things we’d rather not move tend to go to our kids — beds, cabinets, etc., or sold or disposed of.
While planning this latest move, we thought it wise to remove the nine-hole mini-golf course I constructed in our basement (a favorite activity of our grandkids), and so I reluctantly parted with it. One of the kids said she’ll take our air hockey table, so at least that will stay in the family.
In packing things in boxes, we made similar tough choices. We parted with a few things that had sentimental value but no real legitimate value just because space will be at a premium in our new home. That wasn’t always easy.
We’re trying to be careful, though. I remember what happened before we moved to Mankato in 2006 from our home on Eleanor Street and I’d decided to sell all my old LP records. Yeah, the Beatles records, too.
I think my youngest daughter, Laura, still hasn’t forgiven me for that one.