In September of 2024, I moved back to my childhood home — not the house, but the community of Western Massachusetts where I grew up. I haven’t lived here for decades, but it was time to come back, to spend time with my aging parents, and to have an anchor before I set off on my travels again.

I’d forgotten how much I love Autumn. It’s now mid October — at the height of the season’s brilliance — and I still feel a sense of awe looking up at the trees cloaked in burnt and bright oranges, golden and amber, crimson and cardinal red, and even peachy pink. I have tried to capture their beauty with photos, but none does them any justice. The trees are a touchstone for childhood memories, like visits to other places that haven’t changed much over the years. 

But so much has changed.

I remember when Atkin’s Farms was a shack by the side of the road where you could get hot apple cider and cider donuts: soft cake donuts with hints of nutmeg and cinnamon, freshly made and oh so delicious. But now Atkins is more like a Whole Foods operation with the donuts pre-packaged into plastic bags and ready for purchase: plain, coated in sugar, or sugar and cinnamon. Atkins now ships its apples and other products around the world. Everything changes, right?

Remembering the Places of Childhood

But this nostalgia we have, this memory of places of the past–what is it that we miss? Do I miss the shack, and waiting out in the frigid cold for the hot cider, or do I miss something else?

There’s an important detail from this memory that I must acknowledge: the conversation. People worked at that farmstand. I don’t remember their names, but they would chit-chat with us as they served us the cider and the donuts. And they would remember us. Doesn’t it feel good to be remembered–to feel that sense of belonging in community?

When I go to Atkins Farms now, the checkout folks don’t remember me, and how could they? I’m not a regular customer. I’m sure they do remember the regulars. But this pang of not being recognized–of being “just another customer” as I hear the scanner bleep my bags of donuts–reminds me WHY we develop such strong associations for place.

We’re not just connecting with a physical site but the interrelationships we recall with people and of other beings (the birds, the trees) associated with it. The site links us to past-present-future all at the same time. When we go back to the changed place, how can we honor the interrelationships?

At Atkins, I simply struck up a brief conversation with the checkout person. They didn’t know me, and I didn’t know them, but that little exchange was my way of recognizing them. These little interactions are like our offerings to the place. They honor its “spirit.”

If the place you remember didn’t have any humans around, perhaps you felt the connection with the trees. The building. The way the sky looks at a particular hour. Acknowledge it. Speak out loud. Honor the relationship.