Last night, for some odd reason, I was thinking about the monthly payment on the first house I ever owned. Only $111. Can you believe that? It was a 3-bedroom, 2-bath, 1,400 sq. foot ranch in Norman, Okla., and Zillow says it’s worth about $124,000 these days. Wow, those were the days. That was back in about 1967.

Trying to recall the house number, I ended up making a list of all the addresses I could remember of places I’d lived. House number, street, and city. I was amazed and a bit shocked at how long the list is. There are fourteen addresses in all, starting with the earliest one from childhood, excluding the assorted short-term dorms, rooming houses, and apartments from college days, and ending with the current house. Nine houses and five apartments in eight different cities in six different states (OK, CN, NJ, GA, NY, CO). Is that a lot in 67 years? I really have no idea. I do know a lot of the moves were because of changes in a husband’s job, so … hey, they weren’t really my choice.

There’s one house number from 1968-69 that I can’t remember exactly, and two apartments that immediately followed it. I was in each only a year; that’s my excuse anyway. Oddly enough, the only other house number I can’t remember specifically is recent: 1999-2003. It was a short, ill-conceived adventure that I’ve blotted from my mind, and I guess the address went with it. For the moment, at least.

Maybe it’s no wonder that I always feel a bit uprooted and disconnected. But I still haven’t found what I’m looking for. Or maybe I’ve had it, didn’t recognize it, and gave it up. I don’t know. I’ve been here for three years and still don’t feel settled. This place doesn’t feel like “it,” whatever it is. Maybe I’m looking for something that doesn’t exist. Maybe I’m still dreaming of a place in the pines with a great mountain view and the occasional elk wandering by.

Right. Like that’s ever going to happen.