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     On a rainy weekend recently, my husband and I made a trip to the small town in south Texas where he grew up. It’s been a long time since he’s been there…things had changed so much he was afraid he wasn’t going to be able to find any of the places where he lived with his family. In fact we were on our way out of town and had decided to stop for a bite to eat at a little diner when we passed the small white frame house in the photo. When we pulled into the parking lot next door, his face lit up when he realized it was his grandparent’s place.

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     The house where he lived had been torn down and the diner was built in its place, but the big old tree out front was still standing. The tree he climbed every day. Where he played in the shade on a hot summer afternoons. The one with the rope swings. For the next hour I listened to him tell stories about his childhood…his German Shepherd dog called Wolf, the snowman he built with his aunt, planting watermelon seeds all over the yard, running back and forth between houses, visiting.

     They say you can’t go home again, but that isn’t quite true. All it takes is something to trigger the memories. In spite of the cold, rainy day and all the things that had changed since he’d been visited last, it turned out to be a good day after all. I’m glad I got to share it with him.