Moving. People don’t move so much anymore. But at dinner the other night, my friend Randy mentioned that he’d gone to twenty-two schools by the time he was in high school. I’m not sure if I moved fifteen times by the time I was sixteen or sixteen times by the time I was fifteen. No matter. It’s my personal timeline measuring stick. When I ran away from home with three peanut butter sandwiches and one change of underwear in the back of my Red Ryder wagon, we lived in Plymouth Meeting, Pennsylvania, so I was six. When Scott Ricker took my hand and skated with me down a frozen stream, kissing me before sprinting away, we lived in Northbrook, Illinois, so I was thirteen. (Actually, I was twelve but I don’t want to appear like a ho.) When my grandmother died, and I flew to Cape Cod for her funeral, the airport was in Westport Connecticut, so I was nine. And so it goes. Where I lived is my chronological clock as to my age at the time my life memories happened.