Names and places hold memories. Some are pleasant. Some are even painful. Some you try to erase. Some you embrace. All shape who you are.
Cornwall: My first day of school was scary. Bully boys challenging the teacher made my heart beat furiously. First rumblings of affection were cherished when pretty Miss Snyder thanked me for my gift of coconut macaroons. Mr. Ritter helped me to believe in myself when he urged me to take private trumpet lessons.
Rexmont: How grateful I was to escape my father’s clippers that pulled as many hairs as it cut. So it seemed to me. The barber chair that pumped me up and down elevated my feelings of maturity.
Lebanon: Saturday nights found me at the shop where caramel corn aroma filled the air. The taste surpassed the aroma. The Western Auto store displayed the first post-war bicycle. It had a horn and a head light on the front fender. My longings were always met by my mother’s words – We can’t afford it.
Chestertown: My sister and I were first to be baptized in a new church. We felt new inside. After eight decades that feeling is fresh.
Who am I? The product of these names and places and many more.