Art Gallery of Multimedia-Storyteller.com, Sarah Poff

06/09/2026

The Things We Leave Behind
by Sarah Poff

I have always believed that objects tell stories.

Not because they are valuable.
Not because they are rare.

But because somewhere along the way, someone held them, carried them, depended upon them, or loved them.

When I look across this collection spread beneath the American flag, I do not simply see military items. I see a life.

A hat that once sat on a young man’s head.

A uniform that carried him through years of service.

Medals that mark moments of courage, sacrifice, and duty.

A faded photograph that reminds us that even soldiers were once young men with dreams of tomorrow.

Perhaps that is why I am drawn to places like this.

Maybe you are too.

Most of us have opened a drawer, climbed into an attic, or sorted through a closet after someone we loved was gone. We pick up an object and suddenly we are no longer holding a thing.

We are holding a memory.

A pocketknife becomes Grandpa.

An apron becomes Mother.

A pair of shoes becomes a grandmother who once walked across this world long before we arrived.

And so it is with these pieces from Major Ernest F. Poff’s life.

The medals tell us what he accomplished.

The uniform tells us where he served.

The West Point book tells us where the journey began.

But the smaller things speak just as loudly.

The notes.

The photographs.

The keepsakes tucked away and saved for reasons only he understood.

Those are the things that remind me he was not simply a soldier. He was a son, a husband, a father, a grandfather, and a man who lived through extraordinary times.

As I grow older, I find myself paying less attention to what people owned and more attention to why they kept it.

Why save this photograph?

Why carry that medal?

Why tuck away a little memento that nobody else would recognize?

Because every life is a collection of stories, and sometimes the objects become the bookmarks.

Looking across this table, I am reminded of something I have learned through years of teaching history and telling stories.

The real treasure is rarely the artifact itself.

The treasure is the life attached to it.

One day, someone will sort through the things we leave behind.

They will hold a photograph, a recipe card, a favorite hat, a well-worn Bible, a paintbrush, or perhaps a box filled with things that seem ordinary.

And if we are fortunate, those objects will whisper our stories long after our voices have grown quiet.

That is why I love history.

That is why I save stories.

And that is why a table filled with old military treasures feels less like a collection to me and more like a conversation across generations.

06/07/2026

06/07/2026

06/07/2026

In my garden…

06/01/2026

The Unintended Guest
by Sarah Poff

Early this morning, while I was sound asleep, the house was being pounded by hail, heavy rain, and strong winds.

Apparently, an unintended guest arrived during the night.

Now, this guest was not at all pleased that we were unprepared for his visit.

He came barging in without knocking, stomped across the deck, and promptly threw a fit.

First, he tore up the patio umbrella.

Then he tossed chairs around like a toddler having a bad day.

A plastic storage container went one direction. Chair cushions went another.

Not satisfied with that performance, he scattered leaves and small branches everywhere, as if decorating for some sort of woodland celebration that no one had requested.

And then, just before leaving, he decided to make a grand exit.

With one mighty blow, he snapped a large limb from the tree and dropped it onto the edge of the roof, damaging the gutters and roofline along the way.

By sunrise, the guest was gone.

No apology.

No note.

No offer to help clean up.

Just a mess left behind and a story to tell.

As I picked up branches this morning, I couldn’t help but think about how many of us have entertained an unexpected guest like this over the years. Maybe yours tossed patio furniture. Maybe it took down a favorite tree. Maybe it arrived in the middle of the night with thunder, lightning, and enough noise to make everyone in the house sit straight up in bed.

The funny thing is, storms have a way of becoming family stories.

Years from now, we’ll probably say, “Remember the night that windstorm came through and redecorated the deck?”

And we’ll laugh a little more than we did this morning.

For now, though, I think I’ll keep an eye on the weather forecast.

Some guests are better appreciated from a distance.

05/31/2026

After the Rain
by Sarah Poff
Today’s rain came softly, and not long afterward this lily opened its bloom.

The petals seem to hold a little of the sunshine, while the raindrops gave it the encouragement to unfold. It’s a reminder that so much beauty in this world arrives quietly—often after the rain.

As I stood looking at it, I couldn’t help but pause and say:

Thank You, God, for the rain.
Thank You, God, for this beautiful lily.
Thank You, God, for Your beautiful world.

Sometimes the greatest blessings are found right outside the door, waiting for us to slow down long enough to notice them. 🌧️🌺❤️

05/27/2026

The Shoes in the Back of the Closet
By Sarah Poff
This afternoon at G-Ma Camp began with costumes.�Not expensive costumes. Not store-bought magic.
Just racks of old dresses, storytelling outfits, faded memories stitched into fabric… and two older elementary-aged girls ready to become whoever their imagination allowed them to be.
We had turned the shop into a little world of make-believe this summer. I had hung up a costume rack filled with dresses from my storytelling days and clothing from years long past. Around the program project tubs, I draped plastic tablecloths that looked like old stone walls, and nearby sat pewter dishes and odds and ends that have somehow survived the passing of time right along with me.
The girls slipped into the dresses with the seriousness only children can give to play.�And then suddenly they stopped.�“G-Ma… how about dress shoes?”
Oh my.�So we headed to the little room with what I call the Family Ladies’ Legacy cabinet.�Every family probably has one, even if it isn’t officially called that.�A place where women quietly leave behind pieces of themselves.�Not always jewelry or fine china.�Sometimes it’s aprons.�Handbags.�Scarves.�Buttons in old jars.�A Sunday hat.�Or a pair of shoes tucked in the back corner of a closet.
I pointed the girls toward two pairs of high heels on top of the cabinet.
One pair was mine — bright red pointed-toe shoes from the mid-1980s, back before their mother was even born. I smiled seeing them again because Lord knows I was never very good in high heels. I may have looked decent standing still, but walking in them was another story entirely.
The other pair belonged to their great-grandmother Maxine.
Now Maxine… she was elegant.
She understood how to put herself together in a way some women simply know instinctively. Her golden-brown heels still carried that quiet dignity about them, even all these years later.
The girls carefully slipped their feet into those shoes.
One pair barely fit the older granddaughter.�The other pair was long; however, the younger granddaughter made them work. She is easygoing in that way.
And then they waddled back out to the shop in white and gray socks, teetering and giggling, holding onto chairs and tables as if they had suddenly stepped into womanhood itself.
And for just a moment… time folded.
There stood my granddaughters in the shoes of women who came before them.
Women they never fully knew.
Women who cooked meals, raised babies, worried over bills, buried loved ones, taught school, ironed dresses, put on lipstick, laughed with girlfriends, cried quietly at night, and somehow kept moving forward through all the ordinary and difficult days of life.
Those shoes once walked hospital hallways, grocery aisles, church foyers, school programs, and family gatherings.
They walked through decades that are now only photographs and stories.
And there they were again…
walking across my shop floor in the summer of 2026.
The older granddaughter — now as tall as me — slipped beautifully into my old high school and college clothes. The younger one worked hard making adaptations, pinning and tugging and pretending. She is adaptable when presented with a problem.
And naturally… I was assigned the role of peasant woman.
Though I did negotiate for the cushy chair.
Hours later the dresses were draped across chairs, the shoes kicked aside, and the girls went home tired and happy.
Now the house is quiet.
The costumes are hanging still once more.�The pewter dishes sit untouched.�And those old high heels are back on the top of the cabinet.
They will probably never again walk across a dance floor or down a church aisle.
But today they walked again.
Not just across the floor…
but across generations.
And tonight I find myself wondering how many women have quietly stored away a piece of their past in the back of our closets.
How many dresses still hold laughter in their seams.�How many pairs of shoes still remember the shape of the feet that wore them.�How many little girls are searching through those closets, trying on not just clothing… but identity.
Trying to understand what it means to someday become a woman.
Perhaps that is why afternoons like this matter so much.
Because somewhere between the costumes and the high heels, the giggling and the pretending, girls begin gathering pieces of the women they may someday become.
And maybe the greatest inheritance we leave behind is not the jewelry or the furniture or even the family photographs.
Maybe it is simply this:�That the women who come after us will know they belong to something larger than themselves.�A long line of women who loved deeply, sacrificed quietly, carried on bravely…�…and left enough of themselves behind that future girls could step into their shoes and keep walking forward.
The shoes carried decades of memories.�The white and gray socks reminded me that childhood was still holding on.