Think of a place you loved to go to as a child . . .

My favorite place to go was always ever my grandparents’ house in Culpeper, VA. It was the house my dad and aunt grew up in—they moved into it in the early ’50s when my dad (the eldest) was only five. So it was full of so much history, from pictures and toys to stories and roots.

They lived in a very small subdivision well outside of town—only 8 or 10 houses total with nothing but farmland all around them. When I was very young, they had a large garden and grew almost all their own produce. I remember helping to pick green beans and corn and berries for meals and snacks. My grandmother also had a flower garden that produced some varieties that were taller than I!

We would play on the basketball court in the back yard or out in the fields on the hay bales or ride the bikes we kept there, usually accompanied by the kids from the one young family in the neighborhood, or by the daughters of my grandparents’ house cleaner. We also loved playing in the basement. The finished portion was enormous (to us) and had plenty of room for us to build the make-believe worlds for our games of “School” or “Orphanage” (the non-working fireplace complete with cast-iron cauldron made it all particularly authentic).

Their TV only got five channels, and my grandma would let us watch Golden Girls and Mr. Belvediere, or we’d all watch Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman or Jeopardy or Wheel of Fortune together. She would also take us into town to the Jamesway store—where she’d always buy each of us a toy or a Lego kit—or to the local bookstore, The Corner Shelf, where all our favorite series were kept on automatic order and they knew us by name and reading preferences.

The other couples that lived in the neighborhood (all elderly and retired) knew us well and often had us over to visit the frogs living in their water features, or would make us peanut butter and cream cheese sandwiches or homemade pistachio ice cream, or would show us what they were building in their woodshop sheds or growing in their own gardens (and of course, give us a taste). I still remember all their names and what the inside of their homes looked like.

Later, when life turned dangerous and traumatic, it was the safest place I knew—full of love and peace and connection, bacon and Oreos and other favorites we weren’t otherwise permitted to enjoy, family history stories, and reminders that the bad stuff wasn’t all my life was made of.