Everyone has their own special place, a place that brings back memories of the good times. I grew up in a small two bedroom house, in a rural country town. Our house was old and small, but, nonetheless it was home. Even though I haven’t been back to the old house in almost a decade, I will always remember its smell and colors. Growing up, we did not have a lot, but what we did have was cherished. In this paper, I will write about the memories I have of the place I call “home”, let me take you on a visit there. Situated at the end of a dirt road which runs off another, larger county road is the place I call “home”. Here, my mother raised three girls without the help or companionship of a husband. The house set back about 200 feet from the road. As we stroll up the dirt drive lined with rows of wild gladiolas on each side, sits the tidy small, unpainted old frame house. On the porch, I can't help but notice a high-backed rocker on one side and a bench worn smooth by age on the other. Both remind me of the many hours spent here enjoying the weather and view. Turning the door knob and entering the foyer is like taking a step back in time. The door, is the same as when I was a kid, the windows are free of curtains, only shades yellowing from age, pulled at night, as if privacy is needed out here in the boondocks. Mom's big over-stuffed floral couch is set beside the well-stocked bookcase. One lonely picture with the words "Home, Sweet Home" hangs on the wall over the fireplace. Just to the right is a doorway, minus a door, calling us to investigate the sweet smell drifting our way. Upon entering the kitchen, a rich smell of freshly baked bread overtakes the senses. Mom removes the loaves from the belly of the oven leaving them to cool in neat rows on the old marble table. The walls were white and had little kitchen knick knacks like chickens and things of that sort displayed on the shelves. The cupboards were old and rickety but, as always, filled with snacks and candy for when company came. Turning toward the back door, and passing through a narrow hall. The walls going through the hall were lined with pictures of my family, mostly me and my sisters. Stepping out the back door, the first thing in view, is a medium sized dead tree with a rickety tire swing hanging from one of the larger limbs. The yard is filled with spots of somewhat green grass here and there. The once beautiful gardens and flower beds are now filled with weeds and dying flowers. My mother loved to tend to her garden, but since she is getting older, it has become harder for her to tend to her garden and flowers. The walkway is old, with broken cement bricks, but the pathway doesn't stop at the end of the old flower beds. It winds out behind a decrepit shack which was once storage for our bikes. Many days were spent running in, and, out of the shed exchanging bicycles for balls or jump ropes. As dusk approaches, we sit on the front porch and relax as we enjoy the sunset with soft ribbons of pink, orange, and, violet in the sky. The sun casts our long shadows across the porch and onto the wall behind us. Nature is all around us singing its night songs. Off in the distance, the fireflies light up, looking like small lanterns roaming the sky. The crickets and frogs start to sing an evening tune while bats dart overhead in search of a juicy tidbit for breakfast. The house joins with its creaks and cracks as the coolness of the evening settles around us. A visit to the old house brings back many fond memories, making me wish I could turn back time, to enjoy a few moments of youth and simplicity when life was so serene. Sometimes a simple sound or smell gives a quick flash to a certain memory or time in our lives. Hold on to your memories, because memories are the only things that don't change while everything else does.