I went for a walk around my neighborhood this afternoon. The wind was howling through the trees and whipping leaves up around me as I walked. I heard no other noises except the wind (we live in a very quiet neighborhood). It transported me back to my great grandma Emma’s house in Palmdale, California. Palmdale is in the Mojave Desert and considered “high desert”. It’s pretty windy there almost every day.

Great Grandma lived on a couple of acres and the back part of her property was nothing but desert – dry brush, cactus, and dirt! The four older of us six kids would play back there all the time. There was many a time, however, when I was back there by myself and the wind would kick up. It sounded a lot like what I heard on my walk today. Except when I was a kid on the back part of great grandma’s lot, there were no other houses and not a lot of trees, just enough for the wind to make music with. It was eerie and magical all at the same time. Sometimes, when the wind got especially gusty, it seemed to magnify the solitude and send me high-tailing it to the house! Keep in mind I was like 10-years old at this time. I spooked fairly easily.

It’s weird to me to think back to that time and realize how long ago it was. All of my ancestors are gone now. I haven’t been to that house in Palmdale in almost 50-years! Great-grandma passed away when I was in my early twenties. Great grandpa had passed many years before that. My parents and my grandparents are all gone. I am now my great-grandma. I’m not quite the same age as my great-grandma when she lived in that house, but I’m not far behind. In actuality, I’m not even a great-grandma yet. I am the matriarch of the family though. The oldest living female. So weird!

I never thought about any of this when I was younger. Aging does weird things to your emotional state. Nostalgia is a regular visitor. I try not to dwell there too much though because for me, memories make me sad. They remind me of what I’ve lost and who I miss. That’s the Eeyore in me. I do my best most of the time to look forward, but every now and then something will take me back. Like a solitary walk through a quiet neighborhood, with only the sound of the howling wind in the trees and the rustling of leaves that feels eerily reminiscent of the high desert of California, and makes me want to high-tail it back to the house.



I have a spot in my bedroom where I sit every morning and spend quiet time with the Lord; reading, praying, journaling, studying.  It’s also the spot I usually blog from.  It includes a chair, a small table, a big picture window facing my backyard, and a Franklin library stand.  As I was sitting there this morning, something dawned on me and I took a picture of it.


This one spot contains six different memories; the black mug is from a shopping trip with my sister; the cozy around the mug is something I made at my sister’s house using her buttons; the pencil mug is from a trip to Tennessee with my sister and my best friend where the three of us first met my granddaughter, Leah, when she was three weeks old; the rock is from a trip to Boston with my sister and another friend; the Franklin library was made for me by a very dear friend who has since gone to be with the Lord; and the guitar picks are from when my high school friend came to visit this year.  Everything but the black mug sits here on a permanent basis.

It’s amazing to me that this one spot in my house contains so many memories, and so many of them involve my sister!  I’m wondering if this is another aging thing?  I mean, at some point, we can’t help but be surrounded by memories because we’ve been around long enough to make a ton of them, right?  I guess I could remove these items from the table I sit by every morning and then such would not be the case.  I don’t want to though.  The people and times these objects represent are precious to me and I enjoy remembering them.

I hadn’t realized, though, that I was in the habit of surrounding myself with so many memories.  As I look around the room, however, my suspicions are confirmed.  I am a sentimental person who hangs onto things for their sentimental value.  Possibly otherwise known as a “sentimentalist”, but I could not confirm the existence of that word.  I only got “sentimentalism” when I looked for it.  I think that’s what I am though, a sentimentalist.  I wonder what my house will look like when I’m 70.  🤔