Practical Homesteading

Tag: Travel

  • Wooden Cross Necklace Survived Fire, Lost at Super 8

    Wooden Cross Necklace Survived Fire, Lost at Super 8

    Describe an item you were incredibly attached to as a youth. What became of it?

    What small object survived your worst day—but vanished from a Super 8 nightstand?

    Mine was a simple wooden cross necklace—lacquer-coated wood, brass eye screw at the top, black cord. I received it at a Catholic Confirmation retreat my junior year of high school. Surrounded by teens from other schools, I fell inexplicably in love with it. Wore it constantly, except when bathing.

    The Fire That Almost Took It
    Two weeks after Confirmation—May 28, 2007—I sustained serious burn injuries to my arms and chest. My shirt collar burned away. The black cord was destroyed in the chaos. In the hospital, as I faced blood loss and skin grafts, I assumed the cross was gone forever.

    Then my sister found it—miraculously intact in our driveway. She brought it to me while nurses changed dressings. I was at my lowest point physically and emotionally. That wooden cross became proof of rescue when I needed a miracle most.

    My Anchor Through a Decade of Motion
    I restrung it as soon as healing skin allowed. For the next 10 years, it never left my neck, carrying me through:
    • High school graduation
    • College finals when I doubted everything
    • Early days knowing my now-husband (we got together at 19)
    • Hotel stays traveling with him, friends, family
    • Road trips, work trips, and my first attempts at bread in the breadmaker

    Through hotel check-ins, late-night talks, suitcase unpacking—the cross stayed steady. My talisman during that season of motion, before marriage and kids.

    The Super 8 Loss
    Then one careless moment at a Super 8 in Fresno, California. Forgot it on the nightstand. Realized at the next hotel. Called back. Nothing.

    Ten years of survival—gone. I was devastated.

    What I Carry Now
    That cross wasn’t jewelry. It carried a decade’s worth of rescue:
    • The driveway miracle my sister handed me
    • Hospital reassurance when nurses changed dressings
    • Steady presence from teenage faith to breadmaker experiments with my future husband

    Looking Back: Attachment’s Double Edge
    Losing it taught me objects anchor but don’t last. Their power lives in what they witness, not what they are. That cross saw me from scarred teenager to traveling 20-something experimenting with breadmaker loaves. It helped shape the woman who now kneads bread by hand with her kids’ sticky fingers on our homestead.

    Its lessons remain. Some fires burn cords but not meaning. Some things leave nightstands but not memory.

    What object got you through your 20s transitions—college chaos, early love, pre-kids road trips? Did you keep it? Lose it?

    Share below—I want to hear your stories.

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  • Real Happiness on Four Wheels: A Tribute to My First Car

    Real Happiness on Four Wheels: A Tribute to My First Car

    What is your all time favorite automobile?

    If you ever want to understand what makes someone tick, ask them about their first car. Mine wasn’t glamorous or fast, but it carried more freedom and memories than any fancy model ever could.

    My all-time favorite automobile was the first one I ever owned—a maroon 1996 Oldsmobile Ciera. My dad found it sitting in a driveway after its elderly owner had passed away. It hadn’t moved in two years, and when he got a deal on it, we discovered why: the engine seals had failed, and gasoline had leaked into the oil. Once repaired, though, that stubborn old thing came to life—and stayed that way for years.

    We called it the Red Chariot, and in time, the name fit perfectly. That car saw me through the end of high school, college, and most of grad school—about an hour’s drive away. I learned responsibility with every commute: how to check oil, how to handle Wisconsin winters, and how to hear when something “just didn’t sound right.” It carried me into adulthood one modest mile at a time.

    The Red Chariot also became part of my love story. My boyfriend (now husband) and I drove it on little adventures whenever life allowed—from southeastern Wisconsin to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and all the way down to the Great Smoky Mountains. The brakes whined on long descents, the air conditioner worked only half the time, but we didn’t care. Those drives were full of laughter, music, and cheap motel coffee—memories that still smell faintly like gasoline and pine trees.

    Then came The Event. A couple of weeks before, I noticed the steering wheel sitting just slightly off-center. I brushed it off as nothing serious. A week later, I parked by a friend’s house, grabbed my bags, and joined my parents and boyfriend for a long-planned road trip out west. We returned sunburned, travel-tired, and happy. I slid back into the driver’s seat of my car, turned the key, and immediately noticed it—an odd, “extra bouncy” feeling as the road hummed beneath me.

    So I called my boyfriend, the trained mechanic, and asked, “How do I tell if a tire’s flat while I’m driving?”

    Without missing a beat, he chuckled, “Easy. You pull over, get out, and if it’s flat—you’ll know.”

    Classic him. I pulled over anyway, checked all four tires, and found them just fine. Satisfied, I merged back onto the highway and carried on.

    The next day, he slid under the car to replace the shocks. That’s when he found it: rust had eaten clean through part of the frame, separating it from the rear axle. The Red Chariot had given everything it had. There was no fixing it this time.

    We didn’t send it off with fanfare, just a quiet goodbye. Still, I couldn’t help running my hand along its faded maroon hood one last time. That car had carried me through some of the most formative years of my life—independence, love, responsibility, and grown-up laughter. It had been my safe space, my escape, and sometimes, my therapy room on wheels.

    The Red Chariot was never showy or high-tech, but it was steady. It started most mornings, forgave my mistakes, and brought me home, every time. In a world obsessed with upgrades and flash, that simple dependability feels almost sacred.

    I’ve driven newer cars since then, ones with sleeker paint and better gas mileage. But none have had quite the same heartbeat. Because some vehicles don’t just drive you to places—they carry you through chapters of your life.

    So yes, my favorite car was an old, rusty Oldsmobile. It taught me that what matters isn’t horsepower or luxury—it’s heart, loyalty, and the quiet comfort of something that keeps showing up, mile after mile.

    That little maroon Ciera might be gone, but in some small way, it’s still driving with me.

    Your turn—what was your first car? Did it have a name, quirks, or memories that still make you smile? Share your first-car stories in the comments below. I’d love to hear them!

    If this story brought back a memory or made you smile, please take a moment to like, share, or subscribe. Every bit of connection helps build this little community where we honor stories of family, growth, and life’s simple joys.

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    The Road to What Matters

    Toward the edge of town, amongst beeping car horns and humming engines, a road trip fight started because of hot dogs, of all things. “Let’s just grab dinner ingredients here,” I said, glancing nervously at the fluorescent-lit refrigerator shelves of the gas station convenience store. “We will cook them at the campsite.” My husband frowned,…

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    Echoes of Elmhurst: Remembering a Lost Farming Heritage

    Stepping into the Elmhurst Historical Museum, I expected a simple, quiet detour after work. Instead, I found myself opening a vivid doorway to a nearly forgotten world, where sun-beaten hands and worn-out boots still echo the rhythms of a farming life almost erased by time. Housed in an elegant Victorian building, the main exhibit—“Acre by…

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  • What the World Taught Me About Home

    What the World Taught Me About Home

    Do you have a favorite place you have visited? Where is it?

    The place I love most isn’t on any map. It’s not a landmark or an exotic beach, but it’s the center of everything I’ve learned about belonging. When I trace the path to it, I travel through every memory that once made the world feel both huge and intimate.

    I remember a quiet afternoon on a Pacific beach in El Salvador—the crash of waves against the sand, the sun melting into the horizon, my first taste of discovery outside the familiar. The ocean taught me that beauty can silence everything, even thought.

    In Glacier National Park, I learned that wonder thrives in stillness. My parents and soon-to-be husband and I climbed along the Going-to-the-Sun Road, chasing glaciers that remained just out of reach. A mountain goat appeared on the rocks as we paused, breathless. In that hush between sky and earth, I understood that some connections—like some landscapes—reveal their depth only in silence.

    Las Vegas was the opposite of quiet. My sister and I rode an outdoor escalator lit by neon, laughing at nothing. I held a beer, feeling halfway mischievous, halfway adult. The city taught me that joy doesn’t need purpose—it simply asks to be felt.

    Then came Hyder, Alaska, on our honeymoon. We walked a boardwalk beside a still river, two weeks too early to watch bears catching salmon. But the air smelled of ocean and pine, and the stillness felt earned. There, I realized peace is less a destination than a rhythm you carry home.

    All those places remain with me—freedom, quiet, joy, peace—woven into the life my husband and I have built. Our home hums with life: a garden bursting with vegetables, pigs rooting in the dirt, chickens scattering across the yard, our children’s laughter rolling through the air. The world feels small here, in the best way, and full of meaning.

    Sometimes, as evening settles in, I imagine a fireplace flickering in the corner—an extra measure of warmth for all that already glows. Because here, in this home stitched together from every place I’ve loved, every sunset feels both familiar and new, as if the journey never really ended—it just found its hearth.

    If these words made you think about your own favorite place—or what “home” truly means—share them with someone who might need the reminder. If you’d like to read more reflections like this, remember to like and share. Subscribe for future stories about finding beauty in the everyday.

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    My Most Beautiful Place in the World

    If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be? Before dawn, I awoke to toddler kisses on my cheeks and the faint crow of a rooster calling the day to begin. The scent of coffee drifted through the kitchen as my husband and I eased into the morning. Our six-year-old son stirred…

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    Where the Red Fern Grows and the Sprinkler Flows

    The moment I stepped outside in the morning, sweat prickled down my back:  a warning that today would be a scorcher. The thermometer already hovered above 90 degrees, and the rest of the day promised no relief. My husband would be gone this afternoon, off helping family with farm chores, leaving me alone with our…

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    The Quiet Wealth of These Fields

    Welcome to the rural economy—where value isn’t counted in cash but in connections. Beneath the wide-open sky, where grain silos and fence posts stitch the land into neat parcels, the real currency is not minted or printed. It’s grown and built, raised and traded. Trust, hard work, the barter of honest services and handmade goods.…

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  • Rooted in September, November, and October

    Who are your current most favorite people?

    Have you ever noticed how some people quietly root themselves into your life’s story, shaping you in ways you only recognize years later?

    I have three such people. Each arrived in my life in a different month, under different skies. Yet all have become my most favorite—and every morning, her kisses remind me how deeply entwined we are.

    The first person came into my life when I was twelve. It was on a crisp September morning on a creaky school bus. I remember deliberately slipping into his favorite seat, hoping for a moment of attention. He was the boy with the quick grin and sly humor, so different from my preppy, studious self. At first, he barely noticed, but gradually, our laughter bridged our worlds. We briefly drifted apart in high school. By college, weekends bloomed with him driving an hour to visit me, our shared adventures stitching us closer. Eight years later, we married—two lives grown together in love and understanding.

    Two Novembers later—two years after marrying him—I awaited another arrival with nervous wonder. Six months earlier, I had learned I would become a mother. As he grew, I spoke often to him, calling him “little one.” I dreamt of the gardens we’d tend and the trips we’d take. He arrived on a blustery Saturday night, bearing a name passed down through generations. Our first year together was a storm, marked by sleepless nights, fears, and growth. But with each challenge, I found a deeper love while planting seeds both in soil and in his heart.

    Four Octobers after that, our family welcomed a second burst of joy. She came into the world on a rainy October evening, her laughter a bright pulse in our new home. We had just moved closer to family, seeking the roots we needed. Now my mornings start with her tender toddler kisses—small reminders of the light and love she brings to every day. Watching her discover the world has taught me to find wonder in the small moments, and open my arms wide to life’s beautiful unpredictability.

    These three—the boy from the school bus seat in September, the “little one” I awaited in November, and the joyful October child with kisses at dawn—are my heart’s home. My husband and two children, each planting roots, helping me grow, and teaching me what it truly means to love.

    If this story touched your heart, please like, share, and subscribe to stay connected. Your support helps me continue to share meaningful moments and stories that inspire growth and love.

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  • Mapping Home

    Mapping Home

    What’s the coolest thing you’ve ever found (and kept)?

    The first time I saw the map, I was nauseated and overwhelmed.

    It was March 2023, and my husband and I were touring the house that might soon become our home. At nine weeks pregnant, I’d skipped breakfast, and the wave of queasiness matched the swirl of emotions inside me—a baby on the way, a new house, a new life I wasn’t sure I was ready for. The place overflowed with decades of forgotten possessions, each room crowded with remnants of someone else’s story.

    Upstairs, something leaning against the wall caught my attention. It was a large vintage map of the United States, the kind once used in classrooms to chart railroads and planned highways. The paper was yellowed and curled at the edges, faint marker lines tracing routes that never came to be. Despite my dizziness, I knelt to study it, drawn in by the faded colors and the quiet sense of history. Even in its worn state, I saw potential—a story still waiting to be told.

    Two months later, after closing on the house, we returned to begin the long process of cleaning. Much of the clutter remained, but the map was still there, patient and waiting in the same spot, as if it belonged to me. My husband and in-laws spent weeks scrubbing, painting, and repairing walls. Amid the chaos, they carefully cleaned the map, framed it, and hung it in my future home office—a space I would soon inhabit every day. It was a small gesture, but one of the kindest and most meaningful I’ve experienced.

    Now, two years later, that map still hangs on the wall of my office. Its faded lines have become a steady companion to my workdays, a window to imagined landscapes beyond the screen. When someone on a call mentions a city or a road trip, I glance over, tracing their route and picturing their corner of the country. It reminds me not just of place, but of the path we’ve taken—from that cluttered, dizzy morning to the life we’ve carefully mapped within these walls.

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