“Listen. Can you hear it?” she asked.

I could. It was like a scene out of Poe’s "The Telltale Heart." The ringing seemed to come from a pile of boxes stashed at the front door of our place in Washington, D.C. Sure enough, we’d packed our phone, a cordless job we’d bought for one of our temporary, home-away-from-home places.

It wasn’t the first time I messed up while packing. Last month, closing our place in Florida for the very last time, I almost packed my wife.

We have, you see, moved a lot.

My mother used to joke that my wife and I moved whenever the ashtrays were full, though we never really smoked. I counted the number of places we’ve lived in once: near as I can remember, there were 20, a very big number for one couple (though an old couple, I grant you that).

There were eight apartments and houses here in southern Ontario, and another dozen places we’ve rented or owned, all the way from summer cottages in Muskoka to apartments in Washington, Melbourne, Dubai and — the last one — Florida. I apologize if you hear the sound of jet-setting as you read this. We’re far from jet-setters: none of them were million-dollar deals. In fact, we’re more like camel-less nomads. Driving back home from Florida for example, we looked like the Clampetts, those Beverly Hillbillies who travelled from the Ozarks (I think) to Hollywood.

The joke about smoking may have been made up, but the packing and moving has certainly been true. So were the vacations, the jobs and the experiences of living in different places; we are one lucky couple.

Leaving those homes, even temporary ones, have made the packing-up phenomenon a well-practised activity. Crossing the border in Detroit, I worried that the agent would impound our car: “What the heck do you have in there?” she might say. I even rehearsed a story to cover the zillion little boxes, clothes and souvenirs from the Sunshine State. Instead, she took one look, smiled at us pityingly like we were her elderly grandparents, and waved us through.

That last packing-up was in early December, after deciding it was about time we sold the winter property and keep all our socks and stuff in one place. The decision, tough as it was, was made a little easier by COVID-19 and its closed border/no travel thing, and a hurricane named Ian (such a pleasant name; what a terrible storm). In a word, Ian wrecked our island, though not, thankfully, our apartment. We were sad to leave it; the packing was the essence of bittersweet.

There’s a lot more to a place than what you can pack in boxes, though.

Along with all the other places, the Florida apartment held memories of our life, our kids and grandkids. Here’s a sample: the first time one of our grandsons discovered he could read by himself; the day I showed the other one how to put a worm on a hook (my last remaining clinical skill); the time dolphins chased our boat all the way down Estero Bay.

Thinking of vacation places brought memories of our own kids, too. The cottage that let little people like ours write on the kitchen cupboards (great in someone else’s cottage, a hard habit to break at home). The skinny-dipping night when our two were very young (us too!). The seven-year-old taking her brother’s hand and walking across four lanes of traffic to get an ice cream cone. The eighteen-month-old who decided she’d take a swim — on her own, thanks very much — across Wellfleet Harbor.

As we packed up our winter apartment for the last time, it dawned on me that we never really own places. Or, if we do, the ownership is temporary and far less important than the memories they hold. In that sense then, the Florida apartment (and all the others) are still ours, maybe in reminiscence and boxes, but, believe me, still ours. Just maybe, you know, lets not tell the new owners.he body content of your post goes here. To edit this text, click on it and delete this default text and start typing your own or paste your own from a different source.