This is a photograph of my grandparents farm in Maryland. It is a place filled with unlimited memories from childhood until today. This home was once filled with fifteen children, but now it sits quietly covering the head of only one, my grandmother. It still gets is grand share of visitors--family, friends, neighbors...
I really can't begin to write about all the memories that I have here. They are so dear to my heart and such a part of me...this house has seen so much, and still holds reminders of its busier years....

I used to love staying here when I was little...making the two hour trip in our orange volkswagon bus, remembering that when we passed the fairgrounds we were half-way there, sleeping in a bedroom tucked away upstairs with my older sister, in beds with canopies and bright blue and green floral wallpaper. I used to love to look at the books on the shelves and giggle at the yearbooks from days gone by. Squeaky staircases and worn floors, deep window sills and walls of photographs.
The ring of the bell every day at noon, calling anyone who cared to join, for lunch. Soup on the stove that tasted so good, homemade croutons and a plate filled a few different cheeses. If I looked close enough I could see remnants of dinner's leftovers floating in the bottom of my mug.
Two long, dark-grained wooden tables with sets of benches in a dining room of sorts. A wall-sized map of the world that was useful for many a conversation. Canaries flittering in a cage by the window.
Rooms and halls overflowing with antiques and pictures and family and history, rich with history and stories untold.
Summer sunday dinners when any family in the valley gathered the farm. Tables covered in faded cloths, coolers of lemonade and ice tea, salads and hot dogs. An after dinner game of knockout or a round of softball in the Jersey field. And the faintest memories of instruments being picked up and plucked and strummed, lulling those present into the cool of night, basses and banjos, guitars and sweet voices.

My memories of this place could go on but for now this is all I'll share. I love this place, the feel of this place. I want my home to feel like this--comfortable, well-lived in, well-loved, with evidence of life and family and history seeping from the walls and windows, the photographs and furniture.

I try to take little memories of this place and bring them into my home--making soup on the weekends, and remember my new dining room table? Sometimes I walk in to my kitchen and it strikes me--"it smells like Meemu's kitchen." And I love it and breathe it in and wonder what's on my stove that's capturing this fragrance--a swirling of scents--bacon and tomatoes, chocolate chips cookies and grapefruit.
I planted two boxwood bushes outside my front steps. Each time I walk by and catch their smell, I'm reminded of a place that I love. That's why I planted them.
I love going back to visit. Even though it's a little quieter now, and the sheep barn is now just a shed and there aren't calves in the stalls or a jersey cow that needs to be milked or a giant crab painted on the bottom of the swimming pool or a crowded kitchen at dinnertime, I still love this place. I love what it was that I didn't see and what it was that I did. And I anxiously wait to see what it will be...what memories will be made here for me, as an adult, and for my children.
It is hard to be so far away but that's the beauty of a picture or a memory or a smell, or a handed-down trunk or a scraggly bush in my front yard--each bringing me back to a place that I hold dear.

*more spt here*