Yesterday's Farmhouse

17/06/2026

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There were moments in my life when the tears stayed for years.

Tears from abusive relationships.
Tears from divorce.
Tears from watching addiction steal people I loved.
Tears from losing my dad.
Tears from dreams that seemed impossible.
Tears from carrying burdens that felt too heavy to explain.

For a long time, those tears had nowhere to go.

They sat quietly in the corners of my heart, waiting for someone to understand them. Waiting for a voice. Waiting for a purpose.

Then one day, I discovered something.
If I couldn't stop the tears from falling, I could let them become words.
And those words became stories.

Stories about grief.
Stories about hope.
Stories about family.
Stories about healing.
Stories about finding beauty in ordinary moments.
Stories that reminded people they were not alone.

Writebulb Moments was born from the belief that our hardest experiences often hold our greatest lessons.

Every post begins with a moment.
A memory.
A tear.
A lesson.

And somewhere between the pain and the page, healing begins.

If you've ever loved deeply, lost greatly, struggled silently, or wondered if anyone else understands, you're in the right place.

Follow Writebulb Moments.

Because sometimes the tears we carry the longest become the words someone else needs most.

Writebulb Moments
Where Tears Fall Into Words.

17/06/2026

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I Don't Avoid His Picture Because I Forgot Him. I Avoid It Because I Remember Everything

There is something I have never told anyone.
I am afraid to look at my dad's picture.
Not because I don't miss him.
Not because I don't think about him.
Not because I have forgotten him.
Not because he wasn't important.
Not because I don't love him.
I cannot look because I love him too much.

The moment I see his face, I remember that I cannot pick up the phone and call him.

I remember that there will never be another conversation, another visit, another Christmas, another chance to tell him one more story.

For a few seconds, my heart forgets that he is gone.
Then it remembers.
And that pain still takes my breath away.

People say that memories bring comfort.
Maybe they do.
But sometimes memories bring grief first.

Sometimes they bring a pain so deep that we convince ourselves it is easier not to look, not to talk, not to remember.

The truth is, I think about my dad every day.
In the quiet moments.
In the things I want to tell him.
In the lessons he taught me.
In the pieces of him I still carry.

I think about his laugh, his love of golf
The way his eyes shone when he looked at my mom
The way he showed up when it mattered.
The things he taught me without ever realizing he was teaching them.

I carry pieces of him everywhere I go.
Maybe grief is not learning how to let someone go.
Maybe grief is learning how to carry a love that no longer has a place to land.

I think he knows.
I think he knows that I am not avoiding him.
I am avoiding the pain.

I think he knows that when I walk past his photograph without looking, it isn't because I have forgotten.
It is because my heart is still learning how to live in a world where he isn't standing beside me.

Some people can sit and look through photo albums.
Some people can tell stories and smile.
I am not there yet.
I am still afraid of remembering too much.
Afraid of hearing his voice in my mind.
Afraid of finding a memory that feels so real I forget he is gone.
Afraid of opening a door that my heart is not yet strong enough to walk through.

One day I will be able to look at his picture and smile before I cry.
One day I will be able to tell stories without feeling my heart break open.
One day I will be able to remember without feeling like I am losing him all over again.

One day the memories will feel lighter.

But today is not that day.

Today, I am still learning.

And if love is measured by the depth of grief, then my dad must have been loved beyond words.

I'm sure he knows that too.

Writebulb Moments...Where tears fall and turn into words...

17/06/2026

Who Will Roll the Cookies?

Lately I have been thinking about my mother's rolling pin.
Not because it is old.
Not because it sits quietly in a drawer.
And not even because I believe it once belonged to my grandmother.

I have been thinking about it because I finally realized the cookies were never really about the cookies.
The cookies were about everything that happened because of them.

Before a single cookie was rolled, someone had to make a grocery list.
Someone had to buy the flour, sugar, oatmeal, and dates.
Someone had to clear the kitchen table.
Someone had to tie on an apron.
And then the magic began.

Women gathered in kitchens.
Recipes were shared.
Stories were told.
Laughter filled the room.

The rolling pin moved back and forth across flour-covered counters while generations passed along something much more important than ingredients.

They passed along time.
Love.
Tradition.
Family.

The cookies cooled on every available countertop.
Tins were filled.
Neighbors received plates.
Visitors were welcomed.

Children wandered through the kitchen hoping to steal one before they were finished.

The cookies became part of Christmas.
Part of birthdays.
Part of ordinary Tuesdays.
Part of what made a house feel like home.

If you asked my grandchildren what those cookies taste like, they might simply say oatmeal and dates.

But if you asked me, I would say they taste like family.

They taste like Grandma McKay.

They taste like my mother.

They taste like conversations I can still hear and kitchens I can still see.

The rolling pin sitting in my drawer is not really asking who will make the cookies next.
It is asking who will continue what the cookies stood for.

Because recipes can be written down.
Ingredients can be purchased.
Rolling pins can be passed from one generation to the next.

But the real tradition was never about the cookies.
It was about gathering together.
And perhaps that is what I fear losing most.

Not the recipe.
The reason for it.

Because one day there may come a time when nobody remembers exactly how the cookies were made.

But I hope someone remembers why they were made.
To bring people together.
To create memories.
To remind a family that love often arrives in the simplest forms.

Sometimes wrapped in a Christmas tin.
Sometimes cooling on a kitchen counter.

And sometimes hidden inside a cookie that tastes like home.

Laura Ann Turmel
Writebulb Moments...where tears fall and turn into words.

09/12/2025

Christmas Dinner Planning… the 1938 Farmhouse Way

If you stepped into a farmhouse kitchen in 1938 during Christmas week, you’d feel it immediately, the quiet hum of preparation, the warmth from the woodstove, and the familiar rhythm of a home getting ready for its biggest meal of the year.

There were no grocery superstores or last-minute dashes for forgotten items.
Everything was planned with care… and mostly made from scratch.

Here’s what a typical 1938 Christmas Dinner Menu might have looked like:

🦃 Main Course

Roast Chicken or Turkey (or sometimes a farm-raised goose)
Pan Drippings Gravy
Sage & Onion Stuffing

🥔 Sides & Vegetables
Mashed Potatoes (whipped by hand)
Buttered Carrots
Creamed Peas
Home-canned Beets or Pickles
Fresh-baked Dinner Rolls

🍽 Special Holiday Dishes

Cranberry Relish (from berries simmered on the stove)
Rutabaga Mash
Baked Ham with Brown Sugar & Mustard Glaze

🥧 Desserts
Apple Pie (from last autumn’s stored apples)
Mincemeat Pie
Molasses Cookies

A small dish of hard Christmas candies

☕ Beverages
Percolator Coffee
Hot Apple C***r
Cocoa for the children

Families planned days ahead…
Bread rose on the counter under dish towels.
Pie crusts chilled on the porch.
Veggies were peeled and placed in cold water overnight.
And the whole house smelled like cloves, cinnamon, and something warm you couldn’t quite name — only feel.

In 1938, Christmas wasn’t about extravagance.
It was about using what you had, making it with love, and gathering everyone around one table, sometimes squeezed shoulder-to-shoulder, sometimes sitting on mismatched chairs, always grateful.

At Yesterday’s Farmhouse, we believe the old ways still matter.
The warmth.
The planning.
The togetherness.
The joy found in simple things.

Here’s to bringing a little of that 1938 Christmas magic back into our homes today.

06/12/2025

Pip Vinestar Collection — A Little Farmhouse Magic

There’s something timeless about black gingham, soft country gold, and hand-stitched stars… the kind of quilt that feels like it belongs in an old farmhouse with wide-plank floors and morning light pouring in.

The Pip Vinestar Collection brings that warmth back, layer by layer.
From cozy shams to a beautiful patchwork quilt and the sweetest throw for your favourite chair, it’s one of those collections that instantly makes a room feel lived-in and welcoming.

🖤🌿 Country charm.
🧵 Handcrafted details.
🏡 A touch of yesterday in every stitch.

More farmhouse treasures coming to Yesterday’s Farmhouse soon…

05/12/2025

✨ New Name, Same Cozy Heart ✨

Some of you have been with me since the very first “Miss Georgia's
Style” posts, and I’m so grateful you’re still here. Over time, the vision grew bigger than just a page — it started to look and feel like a whole little farmhouse store.

So today, I’m excited to share our new name: Yesterday’s Farmhouse 🏡

Inspired by my own 1938 farmhouse (lovingly nicknamed “Miss Georgia”), Yesterday’s Farmhouse will be a full online store featuring:
• Vintage-style quilt & bedding collections
• Cozy throws and pillows
• Old-fashioned kitchen and baking pieces
• Little everyday comforts that make a house feel like home

The name has changed, but the heart hasn’t. It’s still all about that cozy, nostalgic feeling — the kind of home where there’s always an extra quilt, an extra cookie, and an extra place at the table.

I’d love for you to stay, browse, and grow with me as we get everything stocked and ready.

💛 Welcome to Yesterday’s Farmhouse.
If you’re here for quilts, coziness, and simple comforts… you’re in exactly the right place.

Quilt shown Kaila.

05/12/2025

🎄 A Yesterday’s Farmhouse Christmas Story

Snow had already started to fall the night before, the soft kind that didn’t make a sound when it landed — just left a dusting of white on the windowpanes and the old cedar fence out front.
By morning, the whole world looked like it had been tucked under a feather quilt.

Inside the farmhouse, the day began long before the sun did.

Mama was already in the kitchen, warming the woodstove and humming a hymn she learned from her own mother. The smell of cinnamon and cloves drifted through the house before anyone else’s feet had even touched the floor. She always said Christmas smelled like love, and she measured spices the same way she measured everything — with her heart, not a spoon.

Daddy came in from outside, brushing snow from his shoulders. His cheeks were red from the cold, but he grinned the moment he stepped through the door.
“Feels like Christmas,” he said, even though the calendar had been shouting it for weeks.

The children tumbled from their quilts, pulling wool socks over cold toes, racing each other to the living room where the Christmas tree stood in the corner — a cedar branch Daddy had cut from the back field. It wasn’t tall and it wasn’t grand, but it smelled fresh and sharp, and the children had decorated it themselves with strings of popcorn, tin stars, button ornaments, and a paper angel with crooked wings.

No two gifts under that tree looked the same.
There was no wrapping paper, just scraps of fabric, bits of newspaper, and twine.
But inside each bundle was something made with love — a knitted scarf, a carved wooden toy, a jar of summer blackberry jam saved just for today.

Breakfast wasn’t fancy — oatmeal with brown sugar and a splash of cream — but on Christmas morning it tasted like a feast.
The whole family sat elbow-to-elbow, laughing, telling stories, teasing each other in the kind of gentle way people do when they are warm and full and happy.

Later, when the dishes were washed and the fire was crackling, they gathered in the living room with blankets wrapped around their shoulders. Someone read the Christmas story. Someone else played carols on a fiddle that had belonged to their grandfather. Outside, the snow fell heavier, as if the sky was sending down a blessing big enough for the whole town.

It wasn’t the gifts or the food or the decorations that made the day magical.

It was the feeling —
that simple, steady knowing that nothing mattered more than the people sitting right there in that room.

A Christmas of the 1930s didn’t need perfection.
It needed warmth.
It needed presence.
It needed love stitched into every corner of the day.

And long after the last ember dimmed in the fireplace,
and the children slept soundly under heavy quilts sewn by hands that had known decades of Decembers,
the feeling stayed —
the feeling of home,
the feeling of belonging,
the feeling of yesterday that somehow never faded with time.