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 If houses could talk, ours would tell tall tales of never-ending costume bins, 2-year-old indoor cars, and evenings filled with dance moves and nerf battles.

If houses could talk, ours would need elven notetakers to capture all the nuances and games and  afternoons at the beach, cars and towels and kids full of sand, running in, forgetting to wipe feet and hands, straight out the back door because the sun was still out and there was still plenty of time for make-believe.

If houses could talk, the one up Elks Point would point out the footprints in the snow, clearly barefoot and the imprint of the kiddie pool we used to fill on June afternoons when the moment was just right for tricks and stunts and summersaults complete with "watch me nows"and "look at this."

If houses could talk, the backyard "river" which was really a ditch filled with dirt would remind us of the power of magical imaginations - worlds where tiny sticks and kitchen twine could catch fish and stepping on grass or dirt was like walking on hot lava and the only safe passage was hopping on rocks and climbing trees too tall, yet somehow just right for two-and-five-year-olds.

The best part is that decades down the road the memories and laughter and late-night giggles still remain. And always will be.

That is the beauty of the sunshine and starlight and fairy dust that resides within a home.