The smell of Grandma's house. Freshly cut wood. Coffee grounds both new and old. Folded fabric neatly arranged in closets or cut in pieces on sewing tables. Familiar. Warm. Methodical... like the drippings from a pour-over coffee. Old photographs displayed in half ancient frames hung on heavily flowered blue wallpaper and a chest full of two, maybe three generations of diaries dating back to The Great Depression, a tangible way of honoring who came before us. Treasuring. A lost art. Dying daily on social media. Lost and forgotten. Since I was a child, those black and white photographs stirred something from deep within. I'll spend my life preserving, treasuring, and if I lose myself in the cheapness of disposable likes, views, accolades or lack thereof, I'll think back to a cup of coffee poured into an earth brown, vintage stoneware mug, sipping slowly at my Grandma's breakfast bar on a warm, sunny Mojave Desert day. Listening. She, flipping through black and white film photographs of my grandparents and great grandparents while slowly, gently, fondly recollecting and sharing with me a precious heritage. Today, after gardening, I open our backdoor and immediately sense the feeling of my Grandma's house: folded fabric, coffee grounds both new and old, freshly cut wood, and maybe, just maybe, the preservation of history too.