This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2016, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.

It was every bit as enjoyable as I had hoped. Tuesday was my parents' last day in the house they dragged us to in 1970. It was difficult for them to pack up their belongings and move to an independent living center.

That morning, my sister and I attended a farewell breakfast thrown for them by friends in Holladay. When Mom and the Old Man asked us to be there, we knew it was for emotional support. They were going to miss their friends.

Mom was most saddened. She had formed close attachments during this last "tour of duty." But it was then that I got to repeat the refrain I had heard my entire nomadic childhood.

"Don't worry. You'll make new friends."

It didn't go over any better this time. Even so, there was a certain nostalgia to all the end-of-the-world wailing from the backseat.

The primary differences now were that I was in the front seat, we weren't destined for some hellish military outpost, and nobody had to eat dry cheese sandwiches and drink from a communal bottle of warm Tang on the long drive there.

The new destination is not only heavenly, but also only a few miles distant. Telling the backseat that they could always come back and visit someday was not a well-intentioned lie. They really can.

It was hard on me as well. Even though I hadn't lived in the old homestead for 44 of the past 46 years, there were still some unexpected personal connections.

Walking through the box-cluttered house with my sister, we pointed to various rooms that had occasionally been "ours," and the changes that had occurred over nearly half a century.

Mostly, I was struck by the fact that there isn't a single hole in the entire place that isn't supposed to be there. Even the refrigerator with the dent in the upper door — which the Old Man put there with my head one afternoon when I thought he was still at work — is gone.

All the accumulated scars of hilarity, outrage, boredom and intervention have vanished upstairs. And you'd never know that the downstairs was once the lair of three impulse-challenged and well-armed teenage boys.

I felt the long-buried emotions of being a military brat return to the surface.

"This will be the last time I walk through this door."

"Won't ever see that part of the yard again."

"I'll bet she's already lined up a new boyfriend."

I don't know if my folks had those feelings. Probably. They spent their first night at Sagewood in Daybreak that evening. By then, Mom's priceless knickknacks had been delivered safely, and the Old Man was already patrolling the halls looking for fellow military vets.

I pulled a few members of the staff aside to warn them about my father's increasing struggle with memory.

"Look, if he starts seeing Viet Cong, don't worry. It won't last. But if he sees something broken and yells, 'Where is that little #$%@*!,' he's talking about me. That won't go away as easily. Just call and I'll come over."

I think my parents are going to enjoy living in an older community. They'll have lots of people their own age. I saw quite a few of them pushing walkers and riding carts past my parents' door, which has a sign on it that says, "Welcome Robert and Eris Kirby."

"Oh, great," I heard one passerby mutter. "That guy."

Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com or facebook.com/stillnotpatbagley.