Frequent movers find memories more valuable than furniture.

Byline: Write on by Patricia Mees Armstrong For The Register-Guard

CORRECTION (ran 12/02/02): Patricia Mees Armstrong was the author of the "Write On" column that appeared in Sunday's Oregon Life section. Her name in the column was misspelled.

PAPA HEMINGWAY called Paris "a moveable feast." For many people in our highly mobile society, life itself is such a feast. My husband, Richard, and I continue to be avid guests at the banquet. Proof? We recently moved for the 50th time in 47 years of marriage. I kid you not.

I admit to being the catalyst in this habit of frequent moves, but Rich is a willing accomplice. Just ask him. We can't even blame the military because we met only after he left an Army career mainly because, he says, he envisioned the proverbial white picket fence encasing the dream cottage with a contented, aproned and domesticated wife inside.

What did the poor guy get for his dream? Me, a gypsy who has had him on the go since Day One.

Now, we have had picket fences and cottages, too. In fact, you name it, we've probably had it. We have rented, leased and owned with assorted agreeable lenders. We have made moves as short as across the hall to a bigger studio when we were newlyweds in Berkeley. And we've moved thousands and thousands of miles from Guam to Vermont (three teen-agers in tow with a German Shepherd spooked by snow for the first time).

We've moved from Eugene to Crete, from Crete to Hawaii, from Vermont to Eugene, from Eugene to North Dakota, from Bismarck to Scottsdale, Ariz., from Scottsdale to Eugene, from Hawaii to Montana. Notice the strong Eugene factor. Again and again, we have returned here for friends, memories, the Ducks and the maddeningly stimulating Eu-genius of the place!

In Eugene alone, we have had 13 addresses, five before 1994 and eight since. Plus we've had a beach house nearby in Florence.

We've always moved too soon to make any money on a property. But our memories are absolutely priceless.

How about a 17-room, 19th century house with five bathrooms that once housed a governor's family in St. Albans, Vt.? (Said house was the site of an experiment by our three teen-age sons to see what sounds the plumbing would make if all five johns were flushed simultaneously!)

Or, how about an all-marble house ($140 monthly) on the Aegean in Iraklion, Crete, or a condo on the 11th floor in Eugene or one in Portland on the 22nd floor or another in Honolulu six stories up?

Once, we lived in a Vermont farmhouse near the Canadian border. The house belonged to a niece of Cecil B. DeMille and, without moving a lick, had been on land claimed at different times in history by Great Britain, France, Quebec and America.

Take your pick. We've had a split-level in Eugene, a ranch-style tract in Pleasant Hill, Calif., a basement apartment in Bismarck, N.D., and a garret in Ronan, Mont. Add a townhouse in Scottsdale and an A-frame on a magical farm in Gold Hill (rent-free, courtesy of a writing fellowship from an anonymous donor).

There was a casita in Lake Chapala, Mexico, ($100 monthly), a turn-of-the-century beauty that had once been moved some 30 miles to Kalispell, Mont., and a windswept house rented through an Irish friend in County Wicklow on the Irish Sea.

Logically, folks ask, "Why?"

In retrospect, our reasons for so many uprootings seem, well, reasonable. There were changes in our careers of teaching, writing, business. There were the lures of other cultures, sampling other lifestyles on our limited income as in Mexico and Greece. There were the attractions of climate or locales with good jumping-off places for interesting, often foreign travel. Adventure with a capital A and curiosity with a capital C.

"Are you folks rich?" That's another frequent inquiry as homebody acquaintances shake their heads. Lord, no. We have no portfolio or rental properties to speak of. On top of everything else, we have both been disabled for years, and we both continue to suffer from this malady of moving - incurable!

So, what have I learned, except how to pack (when in doubt, throw it out) and how to hold garage sales, donate to St. Vincent de Paul's and give daughters-in-law serrated spoons and cookbooks?

I do know enough to rent storage spaces when needed. We keep the important things, the memorable possessions: books, paintings, family scrapbooks, drawings by young sons when they were still under our many roofs, and now gifts such as a sequined bobby pin from a sweet granddaughter.

I've learned that everything is temporary in the long run. I've also learned that possessions can begin to own us and that children don't get love and security from a particular table or chair or address, for that matter.

It's a cliche to observe that home is where the heart is, but that is exactly where home is. And, when a writer friend asked me some time ago, "Pat, where do you consider your home to be?" I answered instantly, "My home is in my husband's eyes." If I am still in your address book, feel free to put that one down in ink!

Eugene writer Patricia Mees Armstrong is currently working on a collection of short stories set in Ireland and recently published a book of poetry.

To contribute to this feature, mail a typed, double-spaced manuscript to Write On, The Register-Guard, P.O. Box 10188, Eugene, OR 97440. Attach a cover letter that includes your age, address, telephone number, occupation and a couple of sentences of biographical information. There is no payment for a published column.