Thursday, May 16, 2013




a retained mental impression; memory.
the act or fact of remembering.
the power or faculty of remembering.
the length of time over which recollection or memory extends.
the state of being rememberedcommemoration: to hold someone's name in remembrance.

In your heart, in your mind’s eye, where is it you call home? I know, I know… we are to call Heaven our home, but the picture I posted yesterday reminded me of my childhood home.

I grew up in a rural community in Ohio next to the Erie-Lackawanna railroad. The trains lulled me to sleep on hot, humid August nights. The sound of the train cars clacking down the track singing their song which for all the world sounded like, “don’t look back, don’t look back”. Yet I find that is what I am doing. Remembering… remembering the sights, the sounds and the scents of my childhood.

I remember watching the man from the Post Office bringing a big canvas bag to hang on a pole facing the railroad tracks. This was a daily chore at a prescribed time for a certain train’s pickup. Then he and I would watch as the person in the last car used a hooked instrument to snag the bag and take it into the train, where presumably the mail was sorted by postal employees.

We witnessed too, the early evening when the bag was torn open and letters, bills, payments and other sundry items went flying across the rural countryside. In short order the authorities were on site attempting to locate lost mail and fill out and file all the appropriate government forms, I’m sure.

Ohio is a land of water, of moisture, of humidity. There is nothing fresher than the scent of the vernal spring in Ohio. It is a moist, earthy yet clean smell. I am sure the scent of an Ohio rain must ascend to the throne room of God. The rain in Arizona has its own scent, not unpleasant, but different, almost musty. It is Ohio’s scent I miss.

It is May and soon the fireflies will wing their flight. I miss the magic of fireflies. They are not a part of Arizona. I wish to share the enchantment of these faerie-like creatures with my Arizona Grands, as this is something they have never seen. At dusk, these creatures begin their dance, their ballet, if you will, through the deep woods, the meadows and the fields. They are fascinating to watch.

It was a summer ritual where we would try to catch them and put them in a mason jar with holes punched in the lid. We children would them put them in our room at night and be mesmerized into a deep sleep as we tried to watch them. In the morning the captives were set free.

I’ve almost been able to simulate the fireflies in a mason jar effect by putting a string of lights in a jar. We use it as a night light in the bathroom when the Grands stay with us. It’s a good effect, but it is too “white” and not quite golden colored enough to actually resemble fireflies.

Simply yours,

John 15:4The Message (MSG)

“Live in me. Make your home in me just as I do in you. In the same way that a branch can’t bear grapes by itself but only by being joined to the vine, you can’t bear fruit unless you are joined with me.


  1. I had not had the privilege of visiting Ohio (yet.) I hope to see it one day...
    Beautifully written, Tamara.
    I have an affection for trains as my son in an engineer. Love everything associated with a train.

    1. Oh! You son is an engineer! <> Love you, Jackie!

  2. I like to think that home is where our soul lives and breathes. To me, this post really touched me because I do go back in time to remember my home on this planet, the place that touched me the deepest. I think God is everywhere, God is home and Heaven and the Kingdom of God is also inside us so I think that to have a place in time or on the planet that brings soothing memories or are of times that wake us up to our soul's callings, given to us by God, honours Him. Beautiful post xo

    1. Nyssa! So good to hear from you! Thanks for your comment, it was thought provoking.

  3. Tamara, your 'writing' as always, drew me real that I too felt I was in Ohio with you, chasing fireflies.... in dirty shorts or flapping skirts.....


    1. Oh Rose, it would have been dirty shorts! I was the only girl in my neighborhood my age and had all brothers. I cried the first day of school when I had to wear a dress. That's possibly another story for another time!


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