People often refer to Pensacola, Fla., as the "the mother-in-law of the military." This is because Pensacola is all but swarming with young military officers with job security and money to spare who are looking for a bride. There are a lot of mothers and fathers in the panhandle of Florida who have waved goodbye to their young daughters driving away with a military man.

I drove away from Pensacola last week after living there for five years, a relatively long period of time for a military family. There weren't any in-laws in my rearview mirror wiping away tears. Instead, it was my husband, Dustin, who I left behind to finish out his tour there and then meet us at his new duty station in Bangor, Maine, in November. As far as I could tell, Dustin wasn't wiping away tears.

All of which means Dustin and I have entered a new phase — much like a marriage — of our military career. We are now to the point where we will voluntarily live apart for several months just to get the kids settled into their new school at the new duty station that Uncle Sam chose for us. You see, Uncle Sam doesn't pay attention to things like school years, the housing market, and whether or not your son was in the middle of potty training when he issues new orders. If Uncle Sam wanted these men to have wives and families, he would have manufactured some with less issues and inconveniences like opinions, wishes, and desires.

Shortly after leaving Dustin, I drove with our three boys and my mother up to Bangor to look for a home. Previously, I had never been north of New York City. In fact, not many people in my family have been north of New York. Doris, my grandmother who lives in Alabama, explained it like this: When Dustin and I were newly married, I grew concerned that his family seemingly has more heritage than mine. They are part German and part Irish. I didn't know from where my family had come. So I asked Doris, and she said, "Well, we're Southern, Honey."

"But where did we come from first?" I asked.

"Why does it matter?" she said. "We're Southern."

The only things I know about the North come from listening to Doris and watching "Northern Exposure," which I think even took place on the opposite side of the continent.

When I told our Realtor in Bangor all of this, he said, "Well, welcome to Maine, the cul-de-sac of the United States."

We shared a laugh, although I suspect that he was laughing harder than I was. I didn't really understand what our Realtor meant until I was zipping down a dark highway at the top of our country, and my mom spotted a "Moose warning" sign.

"Keep your eyes out for moose," Mom said.

The road in front of us was completely dark. The stars were as bright and as clear as I have ever seen them. And even though it was summer, the air was considerably chillier than Florida.

"Do you think the moose would come right out onto the street?" I asked Mom.

"I don't know. Maybe they are like deer," she said.

You see a lot of deer in Alabama.

"But that sure is a big warning sign," Mom said further down the road.

We talked to my Realtor just to be sure we understood everything we need to know about moose warnings. Turns out, moose aren't like deer. They don't leap out of the way of oncoming cars. And if your car hits a moose, the moose will probably walk away.

Next we started seeing signs that read, "Next Exit 30 Miles," and warnings in French. I was beginning to feel a long way from home.

When we arrived in Bangor, there wasn't much left of I-95 before entering Canada. I wondered if this is what my Realtor meant when he called it a "cul-de-sac."

Then I began meeting the local people — or, Mainers, as they call themselves — and a new definition of "cul-de-sac" took form. Turns out, the "Yankees" aren't exactly the way Doris and the television had sometimes made them seem.

Read next week when I discuss the difference between the North and the South.