Tell Me A Story

I need a little change here. I've grown tired of my railroad tracks, as much as I love them. When I was a little girl, and I was tired or maybe just a little bit bored, I would say to my Mom or Dad, "Tell me a story about when you were little." I loved hearing their tales of what their lives used to be like. There was something about knowing a piece of them that I could never really see, but through their stories, could know more who they were. They became more alive. More real. More enjoyable.

There's something about the beach that calls me home. I love that when I'm there I think about things like building sand castles with my family when I was a little girl. Or my sister, cousins, and I all pretending like we're wild horses galloping down the shore. Going body surfing with my Dad. Floating out on rafts into the deep, dark water, with my dad, uncles and grandfather, and then being scared as one of them would grab at our legs from underwater. Or countless memories of looking for shells with my Mama. She would find one, pick it up, call it by name (like, "What a pretty Ladie's Slipper!), and then put it in her hand like it was gold that she had just found. I love seeing my kids play in the freezing cold water just like I used to do, and come out blue lips and all ready to rush in and take a warm bath. It's great.

So join me in coming home for a bit. Think of your favorite places. Remember your fondest memories of where you most feel at home. I'd love to hear a story or two.