The sound of a train whistle instantly takes me back to my childhood. There is something about its long, lonesome call that moves me out of the present moment and into memory, as if time briefly folds in on itself.

I would have been less than nine years old when I first came to know that sound so well. Between the ages of five and nine, I slept in the upstairs “kids’ room,” on the south side of our Dutch Colonial. That room had nine windows—three on each side—thrown open every day from late spring to late fall so the breeze could move freely through the space. Screens kept the mosquitoes out and kept my older brother George, my baby brother Sam, and me safely inside.

From my twin bed, I could hear the train whistle in the early mornings and late evenings. I loved its deep timbre, along with the higher-pitched clicking of the wheels on the tracks. Those sounds stirred visions of hobos happily stowing away in open-door boxcars, heading off toward distant adventures and unknown destinations.

Another favorite sound from that room was the whispering wind in the trees. From my bed, I could see the huge oak in our backyard and the tall pecan tree along the side yard. I loved being on the same level as those branches—branches I climbed during the day and listened to at night. I would snuggle under the covers, lulled by the rustle of leaves, hearing the wind move through oak and pecan alike. I could feel the coolness of that breeze as it passed through the open windows, easing the heat that lingered from the day.

These two touchstones of my childhood—the distant train whistle and the wind in the trees—continue to comfort me as I get older. Together, they hold a perfect balance: the call of far-off adventure paired with the safety of a warm, secure bed. Perhaps they are partly responsible for both my love of traveling and my deep affection for home.

Even now, when a train whistle slips through the evening air or the wind rises in the trees, that familiar feeling returns. The breeze moves through the oak and orange trees in the grove, weaving together what has always mattered most: the comfort of home and the pull of possibility, the assurance that a life can be grounded and still open, held and still reaching.