I was looking through my photographs last night and came across this trove of pictures I took of the old house where I grew up. Would you care to join me for a ye olde stroll down memory lane (since this house has since burned - which is a story not nearly as dramatic as it sounds for those Sugar City Journal readers not-related to me, but not one I will tell right now)
(the barn. a very good hide out but watch out for spiders falling in your hair)
It was a lovely place to be raised, this great old house. Looking at these snapshots reminds me that it is good to take pictures of the places where you live. One day my kids will like seeing photographs of what was their backdrop - where they fought, where they discovered their favorite books, where they told secrets with their siblings - and match them with their memories.
I also love that as I look at these pictures I see my parents all over them: my mom's boudoir (I used to think the watercolor painting above the little chest of drawers was so racy!), the little stove my dad would make fires in on snow days, the notes sticking out of my mom's cookbooks...