I was a Teenage Gypsy

I wasn't always a gypsy. For the first 13 years of my life, I lived with my family in a simple, ranch style home in a suburb of Detroit. It was a great place for a kid to grow up. With an acre of land and lots of trees, it was a child's dream come true. I could run from morning 'til night and climb trees. Oh how I loved to climb trees! It was such an exhilarating feeling to be high above the ground. I could pretend it was my home. As the youngest in my family, I wanted my own, special place where I didn't have to listen to anybody...unless they were calling me for dinner.

Eventually, I outgrew my childhood pastime; and, I became more interested in music, clothes and parties. My life was changing; but, one thing remained the same. I loved our home. I never suspected that we would be moving....not once, but four times in as many years.

If it had been up to me, we would have "stayed put". However, nobody was seeking my advice. Why, I don't know. I was a teenager; and was full of good ideas! We were a new generation, with new, enlightened ideas! There was even a song about "my generation" so it must have been true.

Since I wasn't paying the bills, however, I decided that I'd better go along with the clan. Little did I realize that I was about to become a gypsy...a teenage gypsy!!

Renting, buying, and selling houses came in quick succession for my family, though we never moved more than 10 miles. We always attended the same school and "hung out" with our same friends at the same places.

I didn't understand why we moved so often. Years later I reasoned that it was because my parents were looking for a larger house with less lawn upkeep. But, secretly I believed that they were gypsies. They had hid it for 13 years. They had struggled against the urge to wander; but, eventually they succumbed to the overwhelming desire to pack up and move.

Before I continue with my saga, let me clarify one point. I am using the term "gypsy" in reference to a nomadic lifestyle-a life characterized by frequent changes and new surroundings. No disrespect is intended here.

The last thing I want to be is politically incorrect. There's enough turmoil in politics; and, I don't want to be involved in that. That's "right", I don't want to be "left" out of the "middle" of the road. But, I digress...

My first clue to my dad's alter ego was his music. Since he played a violin in an orchestra, we were accustomed to him practicing at home in preparation for concerts. However, sometimes, late at night when he thought we were all sleeping, the classical music gave way to wild, gypsy tunes. Sometimes, I even heard the rattle of a tambourine and it wasn't "Green Tambourine" playing on the stereo. It was my dad playing his gypsy music.

There are certainly drawbacks to moving. Besides packing and unpacking, learning a new environment can be confusing. Sometimes I would forget where we were living. I would stumble over to my old neighborhood, whereupon my former neighbors would kindly pat me on my back and point me in the right direction. No sooner had I learned our new address than we were off again.

There are also benefits to moving, including: making new friends and exploring new restaurants and shops. The most exciting thing for me was to finally have my own bedroom after sharing one with my sister for many years. I was on Cloud Nine! For a brief period, when my family rented a townhouse, I shared a room with both of my sisters. When my oldest sister came home from college for holidays, the three of us roomed together. My memories of that time aren't clear; but, I do have vague memories of returning to my old tree.

The day finally arrived when I moved out on my own. I was off to college. That lasted a year. I was more interested in billiards than History. At the end of the school year, I moved back home.

I held several jobs that year. The last was as a cashier at a restaurant. My co-workers were a fun group, but alas, I grew bored. I wanted a change. I yearned for my own apartment. I desired to explore a new part of the country. My life was at a standstill until I heeded the advice of the night cook. "Go West young lady, go West."

Within a week my bags were packed.

The following years passed in a blur. I lived in Colorado, Idaho, Wisconsin and Illinois. I lived in large cities and small towns. I had roommates and I lived alone. There was always a reason to move. There were new states and cities to explore, new adventures waiting, hiking in the mountains, swimming in the Great Lakes... The list goes on.

My relatives started writing each new address in pencil, knowing that I would be moving soon. I would send out my Christmas cards at Thanksgiving to remind people of my current address. Sometimes, I had to remind myself.

Eventually, the constant moving took its toll on me. Packing and unpacking was truly tiring. I yearned for some sense of stability. After years of moving, I settled in Chicago, where I have been living in the same apartment for the past 3 years.

Yet, there are those nights that I open my atlas and dream of new, exotic places like Indianapolis. I check online for the latest list of the 10 best cities to live. I survey my belongings and tell myself it wouldn't really be too hard to pack again.

There are new places to explore and new people to meet.

Sometimes in my mind, I hear the lively music of my father's violin. I was a teenage gypsy.

Why change a good thing?