Quotes About Memories

I lived in Georgetown in the late '70s about four houses down from the steps.

I have been blessed with a family, mother especially, who started buying me fancy shoes from the time I took baby steps.

I was 5 years old when I first broke into my mother's records and played Nat King Cole, and sat alongside the stereo and listened to Nat's music.

There's a room in my house where my stereo, records, CDs, and books are housed. I spend a lot of time in that room, sitting in my chair beside the fireplace, reading and listening to music. Sometimes I just stand before the shelves and look at my books, because every single one of them means something to me.

My folks bought a baby grand piano and that's where I did the majority of figuring out the songs I heard on the stereo.

Any Marine veteran can reach back thirty or forty years and summon the names of his drill instructors. Flying in a Marine jet over Parris Island, Brig. Gen. Randy West looks down on the swampy land and simply says , "I was born there.

You know... I was just thinking," David begins, and Allison turns toward hi,. "What?" "This is the worst vacation I ever had.

Nothing can erase the pain of losing someone you love you carry it with you for the rest of your life, however ever long that might be. The best you can hope for is that over time the wounds begin to heal, but no matter how strong we are no matter how hard we fight the scars always stay with us.

Leftovers in their less visible form are called memories. Stored in the refrigerator of the mind and the cupboard of the heart.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,Or busy housewife ply her evening care.

Ah, happy hills, ah, pleasing shade, Ah, fields belov'd in vain, Where once my careless childhood stray'd, A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales, that from ye blow, A momentary bliss bestow, As waving fresh their gladsome wing, My weary soul they seem to soothe, And, redolent of joy and youth, To breathe a second spring.

The most painful death in all the world is the death of a child. When a child dies, when one child dies-not the 11 per 1,000 we talk about statistically, but the one that a mother held briefly in her arms-he leaves an empty place in a parent's heart that will never heal.

Ah, no; the years, the years;Down their chiseled names the raindrop plows.

There is not one familiar face Where many loved me once! I speak aloud--the lonely place Returns no kind response! Where I and others roved, I see Another roving race; Gay smiles are there--but ah! for me, Not one familiar face!

My fond affection thou hast seen, Then judge of my regret To think more happy thou hadst been If we had never met.

It's funny, but after you break up a family, no matter how dysfunctional, you start repressing the bad memories. But then something comes along to remind you all over again.

The happiest moments of my life have a been the few which I have passed at home in the bosom of my family.

Contemplative prayer starts modestly, but as soon as it begins to reach a certain intensity, it opens us to the unconscious. Painful memories that we have forgotten or repressed begin to come to consciousness. Primitive emotions that we felt as children and that we have been compensating for may come to consciousness.

I remember my mom had a big collection of copies of Saturday Evening Post magazines, and that was really my introduction to those great illustrators.

Every conversation, every cuddle, aver kiss and caress, even every disagreement, adds another brushstroke to the picture of home you paint with the days and hours of your life.

It was the policy of the good old gentleman to make his children feel that home was the happiest place in the world; and I value this delicious home-feeling as one of the choicest gifts a parent can bestow. Washington Irving, Christmas Eve

Sometimes I stand among the stones and wonder. Sometimes I laugh, sometimes I weep. Sometimes nothing at all much happens. Life goes on. The dead are everywhere.

Once she even successfully argued on behalf of my older brother, Dan, getting a BBGun, a weapon which he promptly turned against his younger siblings, outfitting us in helmet and leather jacket and instructing us to run across Eaton Park while he practiced his marksmanship. Today he is a colonel in the army and the rest of us are gun-shy.

I have a picture of the Pont Neuf on a wall in my apartment, but i know that Paris is really on the closet shelf, in the box next to the sleeping bag, with the rest of my diaries.