Apartments. I've lived in twelve in my lifetime; in Long Island, Rhode Island, Oshkosh, Madison, Wisconsin and two temporary residences in England. One didn't have a kitchen sink, another no cooking stove, the one in England, no refrigerator. For a short time waiting for acceptance to grad school, my first husband and I lived in a cheap place near the city's waterfront with a neighboring kid who shot out the bathroom window with his pellet gun and rats bigger than my cat. In England, history was everywhere. Our place was a few yards from the Thames and it was rumored that Agatha Christy lived directly across the river. There was an ancient cemetery outside the stairwell window but if there were ghosts, they were friendly and never disrupted our life. At various times, my other apartments sheltered a newly-wed, a first-time mother, a distraught woman with her marriage in shambles, then divorce, then starting over as a single mom. Each one represented transition and some, insecurity.
The last one I shared with my new husband only on weekends due to our jobs in distant cities. I kissed that place good-by delighted that my landlord's prediction had come true again. He said that everyone who rented that particular flat moved only because they bought a house.
Perhaps you have memories of apartments filled with parties, fun, quirky room-mates and excitement at every turn. This journal is the place to tell about it. Write down those stories that make up your life, good, bad and in between. Details grow fuzzy and in the telling family stories get abbreviated and the best things sometimes left out. Writing it all down insures that you have the story documented as only you can, just as it happened.