This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2017, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.

As a military brat, I grew accustomed to abruptly picking up and moving to some faraway place from whence we never returned.

Along the way, I lost friendships, girlfriends, connections and memories. For that reason, I insisted on stability when my children were born. I didn't want them switching schools and friends every year.

Before moving to Herriman in 2003, we stayed in our previous home for 25 years. When we moved, I swore it was my last stop. I'm done being a tumbleweed.

The point is that I should be used to moving. From such a nomadic life, a surefire relocation plan eventually would have developed. Right?

Sorry, no. Every time we moved, our belongings were crammed haphazardly into boxes, thrown aboard various vehicles, and later cursed when they failed to arrive on time, if at all.

These feelings came back to me this month when my eldest daughter and her family sold their home and moved away. They lived eight blocks away. Now they live 12 blocks away.

Because of proximity, I thought this move would be easy.

How much can you lose in such a short distance? Surely the grandkids can keep their same friends. And the dog is so damn dumb that outside merely an eighth of a mile away should still be the same outside.

Not even. Twelve blocks or 12 time zones, it doesn't matter. Moving sucks. Things get lost or broken. Relationships change. Pets forget which side of the door is the bathroom side.

Since I wasn't the one moving, I didn't care. Wasn't my problem. At least it wasn't until my daughter said, "We could really use your help, Dad," which I immediately understood to mean, "A couple of your limbs still work, so can we borrow them?"

For some reason when moving, women look at men and think, "Well, he acts no smarter than a donkey, maybe I should pretend he is one."

They'll point to a grand piano made from solid gold, filled with lead, and accessorized with what look like fluffy Relief Society craft pillows but are actually sandbags.

"That goes next. Don't scratch it."

It won't matter how weak the guy is, how old he is, or what might be physically wrong with him, he'll be expected to hoist the load and carry it up two flights of stairs and through a door specifically designed for a cat.

Bad as carrying stuff is, what I hate even more is packing boxes under the direction of women. It takes twice as along because everything has to be neatly folded in specific boxes which are all then labeled "Misc."

For some reason, confusing even to God, nothing can be thrown away regardless of its condition. Someone somewhere at some point might be able to use a plastic toy box missing its lid.

My son-in-law and I loaded a pickup truck and a flatbed trailer with busted furniture, marginal appliances, clothing long out of style, and books no one with any sense would want to read much less pay for.

"This load goes to Deseret Industries," my daughter said, fully believing in her overgenerous heart that a cassette player that didn't work would find its way to some unfortunate on the other side of the world.

Within a block, Scott and I had done the math. DI was 11 miles away through real traffic. The landfill was four miles away with nothing between us but two potholes and maybe a cow. We went to the dump.

Don't tell my daughter or wife. They'll get mad. And, thanks to a blown-out knee, a herniated disc, and two aching shoulders, I won't be able to defend myself.

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