“Wherever you go, your memories from the place you grew up in always remain special.” Guru Randhawa
This week, I’ve been reflecting on something simple but powerful: my gratitude for hometown memories and the unexpected ways they show up when you need them.
A few weeks ago, I was scrolling Facebook when a post caught my eye in the group “You know you’re from Maple Heights if…” I originally joined the group because my favorite teacher from high school was part of it, and somehow, seeing his name there made the town feel close again.
This particular post came from an alum organizing a casual field trip to the Maple Heights Historical Society—also known as the “little red schoolhouse.” I checked my calendar, and in a moment of rare synchronicity, I was free. I didn’t know the guy who posted it. I didn’t expect to know anyone attending. But something nudged me to go, so I did.
The last time I stepped foot in that little red schoolhouse was in 2018, when I cleaned out my dad’s house and donated two of his handcrafted miniature homes to the society. One was a replica of the little red schoolhouse itself. The other was a 1940s-style Maple Heights bungalow, similar to the ones many of us grew up in. At the time, the place was cluttered and chaotic, and I didn’t know if anything would ever make it to the display.
But that day, when I walked through the door and saw both of my dad’s miniature homes proudly showcased, I cried. Not a little misty-eyed moment. Real tears. It felt like reconnecting with him: his talent, his patience, his love for woodworking. It reminded me how creativity can live on long after a person is gone.
Since I had grown up watching him craft these houses – sixty-one of them in total – I became a sort of unofficial tour guide. I found myself telling people about his process, how detailed he was, and how much joy these little homes brought him. It felt good. Grounding. True.
The Gift of Unexpected Connection
I met people who graduated in the 1950s and 60s, people from my own graduating class in the 80s, and a few from the years in between – different decades, same hometown heartbeat.
At one point, I opened an old elementary school photo album and, much to my surprise, I found pictures of myself from kindergarten, first grade, and second grade. Yes, I took pictures of the pictures. Because when a moment serves your heart like that, you grab it.
Moments like these remind me that you can take the person out of their hometown, but you can’t take the hometown out of the person. Our early environments shape us more than we realize. They anchor us to a part of ourselves we sometimes forget exists.
I left that day feeling lighter, fuller, and incredibly grateful for the simple act of going. No expectations. No agenda. Just a willingness to reconnect with the place that raised me.
Why Gratitude for Hometown Memories Matters
Hometown memories hold a special kind of wisdom. They remind us:
where we started
who poured into us
how far we’ve come
and why our story still matters
In a world that rushes forward, sometimes the most grounded thing we can do is look back, not to live there, but to honor the roots that made us steady in the first place.
Those memories don’t fade. They plant themselves quietly and bloom when we least expect it—like a random Tuesday at the Historical Society.
A Reflection for You
So today, I’ll ask you what I asked myself that afternoon:
What hometown memory are you grateful for this week?
What story, moment, or person helped shape the way you see the world?
Have fun,
Lisa
P.S. Here are the miniature houses my dad built—both now proudly displayed in the Maple Heights Historical Society—along with the dollhouse he crafted of the home I grew up in.
This experience filled me with gratitude for hometown memories that I will cherish forever.
