Grow From Where You're Planted
This is where I'm from.
Glenwood, Iowa. Population 5,272.
In the house where my father was raised. Down the street from the drugstore my grandfather started.
A house that was built in 1945. With towering trees, rich soil and plenty of sidewalks to skin your knees on.
A clubhouse I turned into a preschool, a nature club (complete with a bowl of minnows) and often a prison for my little brother John.
A hideaway in the coat closet. My then tiny brother and I shimmied through a trapdoor to find a world that was completely preserved. An empty soda bottle. Photographs torn from National Geographic pinned on the walls. My dad's childhood trapped in time.
An attic where we'd put on endless shows dressing my grandmother's ornate beaded dresses and feathered hats? An attic that still delights and frightens me in equal measure.
These rooms, these smells, even the way the light comes through the trees are what I carry with me.