We drove past small houses. Patched walls and metal roofs. Log cabins and clay facades. Each was unique with a history, a family that had lived there and made memories there. I thought of the houses I have lived in, how much they meant to me. The road we drove was lined by these boxes full of memories and stories. When we arrived at Ron Rael's house I was overcome with the warmth of the rooms. The wooden floorboards worn soft from boots and bare feet crossing it each day. How beautiful that we were standing in this house embedded with life and history.