Migration

Just in time to treat my annual bout of back-to-school/High Holy Days nostalgia, my Staples confetti-cut shredder and I have been attacking some of the paper files I dragged from Old Tappan to Park Slope to Boerum Hill to Park Hill to Highland to Lowry. Today I unearthed some treasures from the 1996-97 range: Book Court receipts for "Pat the Bunny" and "Landlording," the instructions for the pager Karen made me get when she was pregnant, estimates for repairs that made our house livable, the reminder card for the OB-GYN appointment that led to our son's inducement.

But mostly -- ah yes, it comes back to me now -- life back East seems to have been a ferocious, ceaseless series of fights. Each medical bill gives birth to a denial and three appeals; parking tickets beget warrants and failure to appear notices in envelopes with huge red letters; faulty products return whence they came but working ones fail to replace them. It is a wonder that we lasted as long as we did there, and none that we fled.

Now comes word that an old friend who endured the Eastern Seaboard far longer because he was under the impression it was the only place in America to get decent Asian food has packed up and moved to Oregon. It's a brave thing to do at our stage in life and with the job market as crummy as it is. One thing I've learned about relocating is that while a change of scenery can't make you happy, failing to move can certainly prevent happiness. So -- good move, and good luck!