My Roots--the tether

I've been feeling a little nostalgic of late.
I grew up in New England--Nashua, NH specifically. I was born there and, except for a couple years in very early childhood, lived in the same house until I was married and moved to NY state. I know all the streets of my old neighborhood like the back of my hand. I still refer to houses as the family homes of people who have not lived there for decades. I remember the dog on the corner who would wait for us every day to toss a dirty tennis ball for him to catch and bring back. My friends and I would grow tired of this game long before he would. And the bike riding. The corner food market--Jean's Foodland--was always a favorite destination of mine for buying candy bars and birthday cards. Later on I worked my first job at that store. It still is sometimes a surprise to me that it has been replaced by a Rite Aid--has been for 20 years or so.
Yeah, Nashua is my hometown, but my roots are planted somewhere else.
I am the granddaughter of a Connecticut dairy farmer and his wife. The farm that Reuben S. worked was in the family for at least 2 generations before him (I know I will be corrected soon on this). He was literally born in the house in which he lived his entire life.
I remember going to the farm as a kid and walking out to the cow pasture. My brother and I were each given the honor of naming one of the cows. I can't remember the name I gave my cow (I'm sure it was something sensible like Bessie or Blue Bonnet). My brother, being such a boy, named his Cow Flop. Yup. That poor creature is immortalised in my memory for that unfortunate name bestowed on her.
It was always a treat going to Grandma's and Grampa's. In the summer Grandma would give us an empty coffee can with a shoe lace handle to pick berries. Those were that best blackberries! And the thunk! sound they would make when they would hit the bottom of the coffee can. Of course, they would always make that sound. I don't think there would ever be more that a single layer of berries--I would always eats too many for that to happen!
But the best was the house itself. It is an old farmhouse. I to this day love the smell of wood smoke--it smells like Grandma and Grampa's. Our coats would be hung up behind the wood stove in the kitchen upon arrival. That provided the added benefit of saturating our coats in wood smoke, to bring the memories home with us. The adults would talk around the wood stove, my brothers and I would spread throughout the rest of the house. It's funny, the rest of the house has kind of an echo quality to it. There is no carpeting, the floors are bare except for some throw rugs. Despite the echo, it is not an empty house. It is full of memories of generations of my family. I suppose that a large part of the reason that I love old things now is because of that house. It is a sort of tether for me. It is my roots.
Peace
C

PS It is a recurring dream of mine that somewhere in that house there is a secret passageway to a hidden room. It gets more and more real every time I dream it!