My mom was such a home-body. She honestly was happiest at home, and I very much inherited THAT trait. Being a near recluse comes as easily to me as it did to her. But in her home, she always surrounded herself with her humble little treasures. I kept many of them, things that are worth next to nothing to anyone else, I suppose, but that carry precious memories to me of her and of her stories. The longer we have lived in this house, the more we have worked to make it truly our own, and worked on bringing OUT our little treasures (memory joggers). This summer we added the artwork over the mantel, the drapes, the carpet (and a matching runner in the entry). The treasure is not visible in this picture: a lap robe from my dad’s parents (for buggy or sleigh), draped over the banister. As I look around at the little familiar bits, I have a fantasy. It may be silly, but I continually imagine to myself what it would be like to welcome mom and daddy for a visit. Sigh. For now it has to remain a pleasant fancy, but I look forward to the day we’ll be together in that home of which every earthly home is but a teasing taste.