We interrupt our blog series on micro-memoirs for this bulletin. I am in love with Delia Owen’s book Where the Crawdads Sing. This is a completely absorbing story about Kya, the Marsh Girl, feral child off the coastline of North Carolina. Mystery embedded in the story, but also a treatise on the nature of loneliness, secrets, and the importance of the natural world. Go find yourself a copy. Really.
I lived in Foequellie, Panta Chiefdom, Upper Bong County, Liberia, West Africa for two years as a Peace Corps Volunteer. I learned a few words of the local tribal language, Kpelle, and to live without electricity and running water. My town chief and neighbors generously taught me about themselves as they welcomed me into their community, and sent me home with the mission to tell other Americans about them. It was my job at Dolokelen Paye Elementary and Junior High School that made me realize I was meant to be a teacher, and my life in the mud stick house under the big tree at the far end of the village that made me better understand my place in the world. This five inch sculpture sits on the shelf next to my writing desk, reminding me where I have been and how lucky I was to have spent two years in the village that rose in the morning mists at the edge of the jungle.
The red, blue, and white horses galloped through my childhood. They decorated and brightened the bookshelves and end tables of my family home. It seemed like everyone we knew had these horses–aunts & uncles, friends, neighbors. The wooden horses are carved in Sweden in the province of Dalarna, the home territory of my grandparents, and so have extra meaning in the Holmsten and Barkstrom extended families. On my bookshelf now, they remind me of my tribal roots in the land where my story started many generations ago.
