Susan Peak, CRS, GRI

I remember.  Growing up in the South...summer evenings filled with young cousins chasing fireflies...the slow crank and swirl of the old freezer....grown-ups sitting in the shadows sipping creamy coffees, as cigarette smoke looped into darkness....

China cups clinked against their saucers and the voices spoke of the day, as an uncle took his turn at the freezer.  Jars, with lids poked, sparked with the evening catch.  Laughter and the scent of grass rose from the hillside as younger cousins tumbled and rolled.  The talk was of church, the garden, the weather and of the people cared about.

My South is a land of stories.  It is a place of people with histories and a special tie to the land.  The people, the land, the stories are forever intertwined.

I listen, now older...the special importance of preserving family moments and of the storied relationships.  The land, that sense of place, centers us in our stories.  It is where our histories begin... from wherever it traces.

Our homes offer that sense of place...filled with our histories and our memories.  When I visit my parents now, the cousins are long grown.  I remember where the old freezer sat.  I can see my uncle adding rock salt to the ice, the red and white cream ware just to his left.

I listen for your story.  I remember that you cherish your own history.  I know your sense of place is unique and special.