We know nothing lasts forever. “The places that we have known belong not only to that little world of space on which we map them for our own convenience. None of them was ever more than a thin slice, held between the contiguous impressions that composed our life at that time; remembrance of a particular image is but regret for a particular moment; and houses, roads and avenues are as fugitive, alas! as the years.” Well stated, Marcel Proust!
I remember old days and olden times. I can describe every step going up to my childhood tree fort. We lived in a new cul-de-sac between Mill Valley and Tiburon, California. Before I walked my hills, the place was called Reed Station. My husband Fred’s great grandfather and grandfather lived on the exact spot more than one hundred years earlier. The Portuguese side of Fred’s family came from the Azore Islands after Gold Rush times, and they ran and owned dairies. Continue reading “Proust and Thanksgiving” »