My Ballard-born daughter is 17 years old but until tonight I hadn't removed the latch for her baby gate that was attached to the doorframe at the bottom of the stairs. I don't think that I've even noticed it for at least 15 years even though it has been inches from my hand each and every time I opened my front door to the world.

We take our everyday surroundings for granted until they are gone then we can spend decades attempting to recreate the details. Cal Hawley wrote to me from Minnesota seeking a Ballard address from 1948 - "short walk to Market Street, had a walk-out basement. New owner would remember finding postage machines left behind."

Ever since the For Sale sign went up in October, I have predictably fallen in love with my house all over again. It's not just that I've de-cluttered and polished, scrubbed and fluffed the house into uncharacteristic order. I am looking at it with an eye towards memorizing the details and noticing details like the abandoned gate latch. From glass doorknobs to rain on the skylight I am taking nothing for granted.

I've made almost every surface and inch of this property my own with the exception of embracing my chimney or painting over teenage graffiti in little sleep cubby. Strange objects still surface in the back yard, a silver butter knife, plastic action figures encased in dirt. There were no obvious treasures; just a plastic heart adhered for years on the bathroom mirror and a stack of wood shutters in the garage. But on the highest shelf in the day room a brittle sheaf of papers, a different leaf on each one. Someone had left behind their childhood leaf collection.

Perhaps I've missed the plaintive message from that long grown little boy who distinguished black oak from sugar maple - short walk to Adams School, had a steep driveway. New owner would remember finding leaf collection left behind.

People send me their memories now, about picking fruit in the orchards by the railroad tracks, having groceries delivered, renting boats by Ray's. They are trying to identify the streets of the past, their neighbors, prepare a family history for an unborn generation.

When I move (but not out of Ballard) there will be objects that stay with me while I leave behind the structure that gave me shelter. The fir floors that we dug out from beneath orange carpeting and linoleum edges will stay; the heat vent in the kitchen where my daughter took her meals in the winter.

I fell in love with the house at first sight, in early May when all of the rhododendrons were in bloom. It has occurred to me with each bare branch and gray day that trying to sell a home in November is like trying to sell the mannequin instead of the dress. It's easy be sold on a garden that looks like a fireworks display, a backyard made private by red leaf grape vines and passionflower tendrils. These days the yard reminds me of bones picked clean.

Debbie Linn wrote to me from Oregon. She's not able to travel long distances anymore and is aware that she will not see Ballard again. She has been revisiting her past by roaming the streets with the new Google on-line application that allows you to virtually stand in front of your old address, as photographed in the summer of 2008. "It saddens me yet gives me joy to see some of my old haunts intact." The Google street scenes stop just short of each threshold, blurring the face at the window, the hand at the curtain.

In the future will I be able to remember the feel of the hall banister as I follow the cat downstairs before dawn to fill her food bowl? Will I remember finding orange leaves from my vine leaf maple on my car, on my shoes? Each November leaf is as exquisite as a handmade Valentine.

Will someone else love my house in winter? The rainfall in the gutters playing percussion, the twinkle of headlights on the Ballard Bridge unmasked without the tree canopy? It may not be beautiful in the winter but it's dry, it's safe and warm and old. I've never taken that for granted. What will I leave behind, besides the memories, besides 20 years of my adult life? Short walk to Caf/ Besalu, had a steep driveway. New owner would remember finding baby tooth under the bedroom floorboards - and an intact leaf collection.

Peggy Sturdivant writes a series on neighborhoods for CrossCut.com and also writes additional pieces for the Seattle PI's Neighborhood Webtown: http://blog.seattlepi.nwsource.com/ballard/ Her e-mail is atlargeinballard@yahoo.com