Change and I have never been friends. We have tolerated each other like relatives only seen during holiday festivities, funerals, and weddings. This is particularly odd in my case since I spent most of my childhood moving with furniture, against my will, across state lines. No, I was not a tiny fugitive from the FBI, nor were my parents secret agents. At the age of 12, I fondly recall telling my father our family theme song was Willie Nelson’s “On the Road Again.” I heard it on a random commercial for Time Life something or other and it struck me intimately as accurate. He was not amused.
In the first grade, I had three different teachers in 3 different cities whose last names all strangely began with the letter C. We didn’t simply place our precious belongings into labeled cardboard boxes and hopscotch across town or roam to the next one over. Oh no, my friend. On one occasion, we journeyed from the sprawling metropolis of Tuba City, Arizona to Browning, Montana and on another from Pahokee, Florida to Wolf Point, Montana. I imagined grand tragedies had befallen those I left behind so I could cope. Once a hungry sinkhole appeared and swallowed the entire town and another time a vile contagious sickness spread throughout a la Outbreak and annihilated every last human being. Not a trace of that past remained, not a shadow of an interaction I had, nor a friend I might have made. This process exempted me from ever having to maintain any contact with the populous of my previous existence. You cannot send letters to the deceased and you certainly cannot visit, especially if such calamities are involved. Enter Change stage left, Change not embraced as Girl exits stage right.