
It’s been nearly a year since I’ve published a blog. We started planning our next move in January, which consumed most of the year. It distracted me from blogging, but not writing about some of my moving memories. I started a journal for Memories of Moving and Adaption. This was my first entry:
Summer of 1972: I’ve moved a lot in my life, often to warm places with weird bugs. My brother and I were born in Japan, but had no memory of it. Five moves later, when he was 10 and I was 12, we moved back. My parents enjoyed their first assignment there and we looked forward to a shared adventure. Initially, we lived in temporary housing – a “quonset hut” with AC, but not impervious to insect invasions. At night, lying in the twin beds of our shared room, we could hear skittering coming from the kitchen. Mom told us large roaches were living behind the stove and to “stay in bed.” My brother was not afraid. One night he tip toed out and turned on the lights to see them vaulting themselves into the corners of the kitchen. They also had the decency, or fear, to get out of our Mother’s way as she made morning coffee.
That was the first time I remember considering the sentiency of insects. Those roaches wanted to be around us, because we had good crumbs, but they didn’t want to be too close. One morning I snuck into the kitchen to see what I could see. In the morning light, I could see their shiny backs scouting around – until they saw me. Fear and self preservation kicked in. They were intelligent. To this day, I do not step on roaches. I respect them, and insects in general. They reward me by showing up in my memories.
I haven’t found many roaches in our new house, probably because it had been empty for a while. More on the move later. How do you react when you see a roach, or any insect unexpectedly?


Settling in with the loss of both parents and recently retired, I have found time to do things I’ve been putting off. Today, I started digging through a box of letters that my Mother had saved. I remember the first time I saw it. It was the spring my Father died and Mom moved into assisted living. I knew it was precious or they would not have included it in their household shipment to Texas. It was in the hall closet, along with photo albums, video and audio recordings. Into a box they all went, and there they stayed, in 
Creative Pension Payment: Learning New Things About Old Friends
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