We were on our way to a wedding in Cedar Falls, and when we got to town, we stopped at a mall. (Apparently this is required by law – you’ll have to check with my wife.) As we drove out of the parking lot, I said, “Hey, that looks like Art Cox, the real estate guy.”

The family pretty much ignored me. It’s an elaborate game we all enjoy: I make fascinating observations; they listen to their iPods.

Ten minutes later, we’re sitting in a church. A man walks in, and I say to the family, “Hey, that looks like Art Cox, the real estate guy.” Because there’s really no need to form a brand-new sentence when you have a perfectly good one all loaded up and ready to go.

I was right both times. Cox runs the University of Northern Iowa’s real estate program, which means he has helped fill West Des Moines with young people who try to sell you prime development ground whenever you approach within five feet of them.

But the point is, the longer you live in Iowa, the more this kind of thing happens. Eventually, whatever part of the state you hang out in starts to seem like one big small town.

A week earlier on the UNI campus, I saw the daughter of a childhood neighbor and stopped to chat. She was hugging a young gentleman at the time, but I’m sure she was glad to drop what she was doing for me.

During the Cedar Falls trip before that, a waitress seated us right next to my best friend from childhood, whom I hadn’t seen for years. After a couple of minutes of catching up, we went back to our meals. It’s just possible that we’re starting to drift apart.

Last year, the family went to Iowa City, got out of the car and immediately had to step aside so Kirk Ferentz could keep jogging. OK, no childhood connections this time, but at least we recognized him, even without his paycheck.

One time we drove clear to Dubuque, sat down at a picnic table, and my wife looked across the park and spotted a guy from her hometown. And frankly, her hometown is no State Center.

Plus, we all know that Des Moines often feels like the smallest city in the world. On one recent drive down Locust Street, I spotted a former colleague, then another, then another, each from a different time and place. You can guess the sentimental thought that came to mind: “Why aren’t those goof-offs sitting at their workstations?”

After a few years here, you don’t even have to see a person to be reminded of a person. The sight of a building or a random spot on the street can bring someone to mind, and you might even recall what you were going through when he or she was part of your life. All of a sudden, just for a moment, you are back there.

So the REAL point – I knew we could run it down if we didn’t stop for a snack – is that the people who can’t wait to retire, vacate this state and move south leave an awful lot of powerful memories behind.

I read that more people are returning north after a few years of retirement in the Sun Belt. The theory is that they need help of some sort from their children. But maybe it’s because they look around Sun City one day and say, “Wait a minute. I think I misplaced my life.”