THEY FLASH LIKE FIREFLIES: vivid, unbidden, briefly flitting mini-memories — sometimes individually, sometimes in a swarm, always somewhat magically.
Out of the dim twilight of that nowhere bridging Right This Second and Some Other Time, they materialize: a home. A room. A setting. A conversation.
It makes sense, I guess, that those stories, and places, and memories, would linger. When people invite you into their homes — whether it’s through a tattered screen door at Grampa’s lopsided fishing cabin or a mahogany masterpiece framed in stately brick — it’s a big deal. Our homes are our personal sanctuaries, our family hubs, our communal holders of our accumulated stuff, our (“Oof!” and “Yay!” combined) modern-day workspaces.
Over the decades, NW Living writers and photographers