Once again I find myself stuffing everything I own into a multitude of cardboard boxes.

It's time to move, this time to Utica, N.Y.

On the road again. ...

I own a lot of stuff, and I'm rather fond of most of it, but every time I have to load up another box, I swear that if I had a yard, I'd be holding a yard sale.

One of the facts of life in this business is that you move a lot, usually just as you've figured out who's who, what's what, and who's related to whom.

And which streets are being closed this week.

This time instead of heading southeast, I'll be going northeast, up near the Adirondacks in north-central New York.

People keep saying, "Utica? Isn't that where they had those prison riots?"

Actually, that's Attica, although some would say (including me) that newspaper work is a life sentence of sorts.

My buddy Sondra (whose husband, Barton Bradley, keeps whining that he never makes these hallowed gray columns) said, "I keep telling people you're going to Attica, and they keep looking at me funny."

No comment.

When I came back to Cape to work here, I found the city had changed greatly from my college days. All the development came as a surprise.

As nice as all those stores are, I have to admit I always think of downtown as the "real" Cape Girardeau, and I know I'll miss seeing the Mississippi River every day.

One Monday night a few weeks ago, it was pouring down rain when the City Council meeting adjourned.

We stood looking out at the downpour, and when I made a move for my car, Melvin Gateley said, "You can't go out in that! You'll drown!" and corralled the fire chief, Dan White, into running out into the storm and pulling my car up to the entrance.

Cape's not quite perfect -- the humidity's much too high -- but it's the only city I've ever covered where they have valet parking at the council meetings.

When my friends aren't wondering why I'm moving to a maximum security men's prison, they're asking if I've got my snow boots and mittens ready.

Winter is to the Northeast as summer is to Southeast Missouri: A force to be reckoned with.

I don't know a soul in New York, which is sometimes a little scary and sometimes a great relief. Talk about starting over.

And upstate New York is a beautiful place: Hills, mountains, farmland, lakes. Three hours to Montreal, four hours to Boston, four hours to New York City.

Six months of snow and ice.

And three months just to get everything unpacked, after spending the last week and a half packing it all up.

Now if I could just remember which box I put the snow-blower in. ...

Peggy O'Farrell is a staff writer (but not for much longer) for the Southeast Missourian.