When all of my children were grown and gone, I kept saying--in a class I was teaching at church--that I didn't need 3100 square feet anymore.  I didn't need two air conditioners and heating units, etc., etc.  I needed to sell that house and get something smaller.

One of the ladies in my class owned a real estate agency and told me that if I was serious, to put a price on my house.  I did.  A high price--and it sold the next day.  There had been some new businesses come into the Industrial Park (Pryor has the largest industrial park in the nation--Google, etc.) and houses were in demand.

We had three weeks to get out.  The only thing in Pryor that hadn't sold was the leaking roof, rotting floorboards, and a zillion other problems kind of house I wrote about the other day. No one wanted it.  We moved and I started renovating.  It was wild. Luckily I know how to pack, so before we moved I had a carpenter build floor to ceiling shelves on both sides of the garage and stacked all our stuff in there until the carpentry work inside the house was done.

Jon came home from college, opened the back door of the house we sold, and walked into the kitchen.  A strange woman screamed, "Get out of my house!"  

"Where's my mom?" he asked her. I had forgotten to tell him we moved.  First things had come first.  Telling him was on my list of things to do.

She told him she didn't know where his parents had moved to.  Jon ended up wandering around Pryor trying to find someone who knew where we had gone.  It took him a while to forgive me.  For me it was just one more moving story.