There is a great good in returning to a landscape that has had extraordinary meaning in one's life. It happens that we return to such places in our minds irresistibly. There are certain villages and towns, mountains and plains that, having seen them walked in them lived in them even for a day, we keep forever in the mind's eye. They become indispensable to our well-being; they define us, and we say, I am who I am because I have been there, or there."
-- N. Scott Momaday, "Revisiting Sacred Ground," in The Man Made of Words
Many of my memories are piqued by places I have been. I write about my family and the farm where I grew up. I write about people and the place where I remember them.
I write about Colorado where I have wonderful memories of Barry and our vacations there. That is also where we camped one night outside Estes Park and our kitchen tent blew away in a blizzard that came up while we slept. On another trip, we had so much fun with the college students who worked as staff for a ranch where we rode horses in the mountains.
My only trip to California with Barry, Gay and Stu, created so many memories that make me smile. We had two days at the Mark Hopkins Hotel on Nob Hill in San Francisco. I will never forget the thrilling ride in a Taxi as the driver raced down the streets slamming on brakes then speeding away again. It was like a carnival ride over the hills and valleys.
In New England we laughed so much and although I only remember one or two things we did, that place will remain in my memory as long as I live. The four of us went into a gift shop and walked around looking at the unique items with a seaside theme. After a few minutes, I noticed the woman who had been behind the counter when we came in seemed to be following us. She didn't say anything but stayed nearby. I told my sister, "That woman is following us. I wonder if she thinks we are going to steal something?" We laughed at that absurd idea and continued to shop.
At the counter, as we paid for the things we wanted, the woman asked where we were from. We told her we were from Georgia. "I knew you were not from here," she said, "when I heard you talk. I listened and tried to decide where you were from."
We laughed later as we realized she was not suspicious of us. She just wanted to hear us talk.
I have written poems placed in hospitals, on airplanes, on ski slopes, in the mountains, on lakes, and in the house where I lived. I ground my writing in places and the place usually becomes an important part of my story.
One of my prompts for my students is to choose a place where they once lived and write down the things they remember about that place. Then note the people they knew or remember from that place. Often many stories come from those notes.
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| A special place for me, looking off the deck of my mountain home which holds many memories, and stories I will write about |
