Photo Essay: Postcards from my Kids. "Still planning on Mexico this summer?"

I'm noticing another theme as I photograph and comment on these cards from my kids -- the constant travel. None of them, including Amy, seems able to settle down anywhere for very long.
They move to North Dakota, then back to Utah, then to Idaho, then the older kids move out to Colorado, back to Utah, to Minnesota -- Virginia joins the Air Force; Adam goes on his mission; Daisy goes to Minnesota to work; Ed joins the Navy. While in North Dakota they live in Tioga, in Ray, in Crosby, in Williston, and in Minot.  
I have always felt guilty that it was my constant circus travel that pulled the family apart -- and in large part it was. But by the time I was out of the picture, the family's dynamic, with Amy at the head, was to never linger in any place too long. Like gypsies (oh, how politically incorrect!) or Bedouins (even worse!), their tendencies were to pull up stakes and steal silently away with very little rhyme or reason.
A month ago Amy moved out to Washington State, to live among complete strangers at an airbnb. The kids and I had been working with her to find her a subsidized Section Eight apartment here in Utah County, and she told us that she had been accepted for one and would move in within a week. Then the next morning she was gone -- left a cryptic Facebook message that explained nothing and just said she knew we wouldn't let her do as she wanted, so she had left in the middle of the night. As I said, just like a gypsy.
 I am determined to never ever move again -- God willing, I'll spend the rest of my life in this apartment at Valley Villa, 650 West 100 North Apartment 115, Provo, Utah. I have no desire to hit the sawdust trail again or go sightseeing or even go as far as Salt Lake for a Swedish meatball lunch at Ikea. Provo is my home, and I'm hoping that this area will be home to all of my children. Sarah and Adam are already settled here. Daisy works here. Madel says she'd like to move out here, but her hubby Donald doesn't want to leave his extended family out in Virginia. Poor little Irvin is buried in Pleasant Grove. This area seems to me to be about the sanest, safest, and most temperate area in the United States. So why wouldn't the rest of the kids want to live here?
Now it's time to eat a pecan fudge brownie and take a nap. When I wake up I hope to God I'm still in Provo, and that these past seven years have not been a dream . . .