I like thinking about the homes people live in. Not whether the house is big or small, perched on a knoll in an upscale development or nestled on a side street in a small town.

Instead, I like thinking about what's in a home, the things people surround themselves with - the colors, the textures, the knick-knacks, the mementos - all the things that make a house a home.

When people dear to me move into a different house or apartment, I feel compelled to visit them, to see them in their new surroundings. This way, when I think of them, I can imagine where they are. When we talk on the phone, I can see them in my mind's eye as they move about a place that is familiar to me.

Homes have always been important to me. My childhood home was a white framed two-story with big square rooms and wide double-hung windows.

Light colored rooms outlined with wide woodwork created an interior framework of intersecting angles. Handmade pillows and afghans, well-worn furniture and family mementos helped make the home feel safe and warm.

I was born eight days after my parents moved to that house - the first and only home they ever owned - and I lived there until I left for college 18½ years later.

The house I live in now is very different from my childhood home; rambling and open, it's a two-story stone and cedar house tucked into a hillside. As of this month, I have lived in this house longer than my childhood home.

We moved here on my birthday in 1987, 18½ plus years ago. This home, where my children grew up, also has well-worn furniture and nicked woodwork as well as objects that reflect the lives of its occupants. A wooden scythe once used on my in-laws' farm hangs over the fireplace; fancy pillows from my mother's sofa adorn the living room furniture; a beautiful antique stained glass window - a wedding present from our best man - reflects sunlight onto our kitchen table, which we bought at a garage sale 22 years ago.

But mostly this home holds reminders of my children's lives: the refurbished school desk where my older son always studied, carved wooden shelves from my younger son's woodworking class, and my daughter's high school art projects, prominently displayed in the living room.

As I move through this house, I can feel how our family's lives unfolded here. That's what homes do, reflect the lives of their occupants and, in a sense, stand as witness to the people who have lived there.

Over the past few weeks, we have seen countless images of people and their homes being cast willy-nilly by the winds and water of Hurricane Katrina. Some of the displaced are being housed in shelters; others are hundreds or thousands of miles from what was once home.

Usually after such disasters, the occupants return to their neighborhoods with the hope of salvaging something from their ruined homes - ever grateful to find a child's toy or a piece of grandma's china intact.

In this tragedy, though, few will have that opportunity, as wreckers and bulldozers will be brought in for a massive cleanup, and little heed will be given to the mementos that adorned the homes that were once there.

Linda K. Schmitmeyer is a freelance writer living in Middlesex Township. Her e-mail address is lks260@aol.com.