Four years ago this week, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda and the Colonel engaged in an activity that they had done so often that they could do it in their sleep.
They packed up all of their worldly belongings and moved.
But this time was different. This time was the last time.
For the thirty-one years of wedded bliss that preceded that last move, the Colonel and his bride had packed, moved, and unpacked household goods and family every 1.75 years, on average. There were several duty stations at which they unpacked, packed, and from which they moved, all within less than a year's time. Such a nomadic lifestyle lends itself to the adoption of, by virtue of sad experience, a set of unwritten (heretofore) rules:
Rule #1: Purchase no furniture that cannot withstand the rigors of at least five cross-country moves in its lifetime.
Rule #2: Take up no hobby the fruits of which are inherently fragile; i.e., model building, figurine collecting, etc...; unless of course you intend to take up a follow-on hobby of fragile model and figurine repair...
Rule #3: Any box unopened after a third move obviously contains unnecessary items and shall be deposited forthwith on the curb.
Rule #4: Make no friends with whom you do not care to continue a long-distance relationship.
Rule #5: Take inventory of all household pets, to include the neighbors', before allowing the movers to close and lock the doors to the moving van.
Rule #6: Take inventory of all children, to include the neighbors', before allowing the movers to close and lock the doors to the moving van.
Rule #7: Carry a hammer, screwdrivers, adjustable wrench, a bottle of industrial strength air freshener, and a week's supply of tissues in your car to the next duty station. The tools will allow for quick complete disassembly of broken and unsalvageable furniture so as to make carriage to the curb less onerous; the industrial strength air freshener will ward off odors generated by off-gassing of long-deceased un-inventoried pets and child-packed half-eaten food items; and the tissues will help dry the eyes of the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda when the Colonel informs her that he is expected to report to duty immediately and may not be home for a week.
There are one hundred and twenty-seven more rules, but the Colonel is detecting a whiff of frantic boredom among the five of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon and have persevered in reading thus far in the vain hope that there might actually eventually appear posted hereon something of interest or current events relevance. And, as always, the Colonel is happy to disappoint.
So, this Friday is the fourth anniversary of the Colonel's and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's arrival at their last duty station here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere. The day shall be marked with fireworks, feasting, and patriotic speech-making.
Well, ...maybe the Colonel will step out on the back porch, discharge his muzzle-loader at nothing in particular, take a bite of a day-old sausage biscuit, and off-gas a bit his own self.