Quotes About Nostalgia

She thinks it has something to do with one of her clearest memories of her mother—the two of them sitting on Maggie's bed, early one Saturday morning, eating ginger pancakes and drinking unsweetened iced tea. Listening to the radio. She can still call it up whenever she eats the pancakes. Not just the memory. But the feeling, as if it is happening right now.

We only really remember things for five years. After that, what we remember, what's actually etched in our brain, is our memory of the thing, not the thing itself. And five years after that, what's left is our memory of the memory. You follow me?

La vida sería mucho más agradable si uno pudiera llevarse a donde quiera que fuera, los sabores y olores de la casa materna.

Gertrudis got on her horse and rode away. She wasn't riding alone--she carried her childhood beside her, in the cream fritters she had enclosed in a jar in her saddlebag

Words have life, memory, when you hear them you travel to the past

La vida sería mucho más agradable si uno pudiera llevarse a donde quiera que fuera los sabores y los olores de la casa materna.

They were the product of crafts that have, unfortunately, gone out of style, like long dresses, love letters, and the waltz. But for Tit and Pedro the waltz They Eyes of Youth, which the orchestra was playing at Pedro's request, would never go out of style.

Life would be much nicer if one could carry the smells and tastes of the maternal home wherever one pleased.

Gertrudis got onto her horse and rode away. She wasn't riding alone--she carried her childhood beside her, in the cream fritters she had enclosed in a jar in her saddlebag.

No le fue fácil meter en la maleta el día en que hicieron su primera comunión las tres juntas. La vela, el libro y la foto afuera de la iglesia cupieron muy bien, pero no así el sabor de los tamales y del atole que Nacha les había preparado y que habían comido después en compañía de sus amigos y familiares.

If only I had some grease I could fix some kind of a light, Ma considered. We didn't lack for light when I was a girl before this newfangled kerosene was ever heard of. That's so, said Pa. These times are too progressive. Everything has changed too fast. Railroads and telegraph and kerosene and coal stoves--they're good things to have, but the trouble is, folks get to depend on 'em.

These happy golden years are passing by, these happy golden years.

They could not be forgotten, she thought, because now is now. It can never be a long time ago.

Where's my little half-pint of sweet cider half drunk up?

Golden years are passing by, Happy, happy golden years, Passing on the wings of time, These happy golden years. Call them back as they go by, Sweet their memories are, Oh, improve then as they fly, These happy golden years.

The snug log house looked just as it always had. It did not seem to know they were going away.

Mary and Laura clung tight to their rag dolls and did not say anything. The cousins stood around and looked at them. Grandma and all the aunts hugged and kissed them and hugged and kissed them again, saying good-by.

She was glad that the cosy house, and Pa and Ma and the firelight and the music, were now. They could not be forgotten, she thought, because now is now. It can never be a long time ago.

For dinner they ate the stewed pumpkin with their bread. They made it into pretty shapes on their plates. It was a beautiful color, and smoothed and molded so prettily with their knives. Ma never allowed them to play with their food at table; they must always eat nicely everything that was set before them, leaving nothing on their plates. But she did let them make the rich, brown, stewed pumpkin into pretty shapes before they ate it.

So they all went away from the little log house. The shutters were over the windows, so the little house could not see them go. It stayed there inside the log fence, behind the two big oak trees that in the summertime had made green roofs for Mary and Laura to play under. And that was the last of the little house

the old Virginia shore. So carry

Almanzo could only look longingly at the eager three-year-olds. He just touched their velvety noses, and then he went quickly away from them, and put on his barn frock over his good school-clothes.

Sure, these things had belonged to my grandpa, but they didn't mean anything to me and didn't hold any special memories.

The past should be culled like a box of fresh strawberries, rinsed of debris, sweetened judiciously and served in small portions, not very often.