You can go home again...

For those who never left their childhood home, their memories are part of their daily existence, blended into the current fabric of their lives, the very fabric that gets thrown in the wash and then comes out clean on a regular basis (although with faint stains...)

For those who left home, memories can exist in boxes of letters, old photos and other infrequent glimpses, white-washed with a nostalgic patina and reserved for rainy, moody days or visits with very young relatives.

I recently had two opportunities to vicariously revisit my childhood homes.The elementary school playground from my second home (oh, the view from there! we didn't realize as children what stunning scenery beheld us every day) and a current photo of my early childhood home, sadly missing the lilac tree, pink bushes and rock gardens arranged and nurtured by my mother (but with a kick-ass deck off the living room that we never had).  The backyard trees are huge! towering then and towering now over small bodies playing in the expansive backyard.

Family and friends are the link.  A connection with someone with a shared history allows for cross-referencing and reality checking of various events, remembered differently by each person.  It can be painful; it can be hilarious.  Some want to remember; some don't.

For the early pictures, thanks to my sister - who sees so many things as I do, as we always have. And to a new, old friend from grade 3 for the recent trip back in time to the playground.  I plan to keep remembering.

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