It's summer on Sioux Court. I'm grown and dating. My boyfriend walks next to me. I point to the house my father built before I was born and sold when I was 7. It's gone from red to green. I wave to Stell. She doesn't know who I am.
The railroad bridge is black against a gray sky. The slightest pink edges the eastern horizon.
A sparse treeline divides the corn field from the soy. We find a knotty oak. We climb rotting slats nailed to the trunk and sit closer than we should.
Places are as important as people.
This is Penny Jar, the blog I started one year ago today with the hope of finding the story inside the life. I'm realizing that the stories I want to write and have been writing as of late are not memoir. Oh, they do as most fiction does and careen in and out of reality like so many drunken sailors on shore leave, but they certainly can't fess up to their actions (like so many drunken sailors on shore leave).
That being said, I'm not ready to leave Penny Jar behind. The examination of past events can be fascinating. The examination of past places can be even more so, which is what brings me to the slices I have laid out so far.
You cannot hold a place, it holds you.
Often where you are is insignificant to an event or moment. Later it may come back to you or you to it. I'd like to experiment with short meditations on places, similar to the writing exercises from Old Friend from Far Away.
I don't know where they will end up, but it will be some place with a story to tell.
What are some places that call out to you?