I never have found a good approach to writing autobiographical sketches.
Some days, saying anything at all seems like giving too much information, while
on others, I feel as though what I write, no matter if it's volumes, doesn't provide
enough background to make the facts intelligible.
Born soon after World War II ended, I attended college during the sixties—took part in civil rights and anti-war protests, avoided the drug sub-culture (although many of my acquaintance did otherwise), but did not avoid all aspects of the late sixties and early seventies "hippy" lifestyle—and perceived myself as being generally out of step with the world around me.
As a child, I loved being out of doors, with a preference for climbing trees and wading in the lakes, ponds, and rivers. Pastures were favorites, especially when they held plum and chokeberry trees. I avoided people at all costs, preferring the company of books and of my own thoughts. This is an entertainment that I have returned to in later life: telling stories for my own amusement. Occasionally, I write them down, but most often not.
I have for the most part tired of radio and television, motion pictures and musical entertainment. I enjoy good books and writing, with nature CDs supplying the sounds of childhood—water rushing over stones, bird song, and gentle rains.
My husband Allan and I have many interests in common, including literature, photography, computers, radio electronics, amateur radio and related volunteer work, and storms. We love storms! Over the past five years, he has put together a small gazebo in the back yard with combination windows, so that we can watch the weather roll through without getting wet. Much better than sitting just inside the door of the storage shed with rain water splashing up to soak our feet and legs, the dogs sitting in our laps where they could keep relatively dry.
The gazebo, now that it has windows, is also serving as a sun room of
sorts. I'm able to sit out there during the winter, when the sunshine
through the windows brings the temperature inside above freezing, twenty
or more degrees above the outside temperature. I am able to sit out there,
wrapped in a quilt with a blanket around my legs, and read or surf the
Internet or just enjoy the fresh air and being outside for a while.
These past few years our amateur radio club has held its ARRL Field Day event at Johnson Park in rural Moorhead, Minnesota. There is a public access to the Red River, there, and I've seen the wood duck nesting boxes put up on trees along the river. There are lots of trees with walking paths. While the others are making Dx contacts, I find myself drawn to the paths and the river, exploring with my camera and reliving scenes from childhood—climbing fallen trees and digging into the hollow logs to find out what's inside. I'm much better, these days, at recognizing and avoiding poison ivy, for which I'm profoundly grateful.
When it first came out, I viewed Pan's Labyrinth, a movie that appealed to me in part because of the forest that covered the mountainside. The growth on the forest floor is sparse because the taller trees block out the sunlight. Just so, only stunted trees and noxious weeds cover the ground beneath the trees along the river. Even the taller trees are not broad enough to shield an armed insurrectionist. I love the colors of the forest in the fall when the afternoon sun breaks through the thinning foliage, bringing out the reds and yellows of the leaves already scattered across the forest's floor.
Liz