My daily walks take me down new streets these days. Since our family moved to our new home late last year, my walks have become a sensory delight – fresh sights, new scents, and the quiet hum of a different neighbourhood.

Our avenue is lined with Australian native trees – majestic eucalypts standing firm, she-oaks whispering secrets in the wind. Dotted between them are birch, gingko, pine… a marvellous mix of origins, much like the people who call this place home.

Some homes here are modern and minimalist; others are a reflection of when this suburb was first established 100 years ago and there is a delightful scattering of architecture from each decade in between.

We had lived in our previous home for 15 years, and I knew every flower, every crack in the footpath, every tree and mailbox, in all those years of walking our children on our regular paths. So, all this freshness is sparking my attention. I am being asked to feel something as I stroll and put new roots down in this lovely place.

But, there is one home on my walk that makes me feel more than most. Energy emanates from the front door, travelling along lush green vines that wind through wonky wooden trellises – to tug at my heartstrings. Two sawn fence palings, held by thick rusted nails, form a homemade wooden cross above the door. I can’t help but smile at the plants in motley pots spilling colour across the front yard. Every inch of this garden has been fashioned for harvest. There is a demand on the earth here – to grow, to produce, to nourish.

On weekends, cars line the driveway, and people pour in and out of this home. I am yet to meet the owners, but I can imagine this bustle of weekend activity is family visiting for Nonno’s limoncello or Nonna’s tomato sugo, rich with love.

The sight of vines and olive trees have always moved me. My ancestral heritage is Irish (with a dash of Italian!), but my husband’s family carries a deep love from Italy; for gardening, vino, and the way food connects you with people in the present and those who came before.

Walking past this abundant home fills me with nostalgia – and the quiet ache of knowing that those who have seen the world with their eyes, long before I saw it with mine, will one day be gone.

It also makes me miss my own grandparents, who left this world when I was young. I would give anything to sit under a vine in the warm sun with them, to see their faces and hear their voices.

But I realise that nostalgia alone is not enough.

We must try to turn it into knowledge.

To ask the questions before the answers are gone.

We often think of – and record – the family tree: the roots, the branches. But family stories don’t follow straight lines. They twist and wind like a vine, growing between generations, carrying memories through time.

Some stories are heirlooms, passed down over meals or in quiet moments. For others, family history is more complicated, or the storytellers are no longer here. But the past still leaves clues – objects, traditions, recipes, echoes of conversations.

So, here is my call to you: Let your attention be sparked by your elders. Ask about the stories behind the objects in their homes. Write down the recipes they’ve carried in their memory for decades. Step through photo albums together. Capture the light and laughter, but also the stories of ‘how’ and ‘why.’

Take notes. Record voices (with permission, of course). Tend to your family vine so its stories continue to grow. And when you’re ready, consider preserving them in a lasting form – like a personalised Story Collection audiobook.

This is why I’m passionate about capturing stories in voice. Hearing a loved one’s words – their laughter, their pauses, their humour, their immediate reactions to a story prompt – is irreplaceable. It’s a piece of them that lingers, even after they’re gone. This is why I do what I do: helping people preserve these precious voices for generations to come.

Because once the stories are gone, we can’t get them back.

The time is now to make the time.