On Friday, August 28, we drove up to Baltimore's Inner Harbor to see my son play at Rams Head Live, one of the most popular band venues on the east coast. We arrived early, and walked around the harbor area. My heart pounded when viewing the USS Constellation with her tall furled masts, open portals with the canons jutting out, and her magnificent her black lacquer haul.
I looked up at the skyscrapers cluttering the skyline, alongside my husband and oldest son as we stood on the red brick pavement. No trees. No grass. Just concrete and glass made up the landscape away from the harbor. A few pigeons and sceeching seagulls, but no birds, and no bird songs. I could never live in the city.
The trip made me thankful for the little house I own on the corner of two intersecting streets. For the park behind us. For the mountains in the distance, the field of tasseled corn, the grove of evergreens, and my tall sugar maple which is showing hints of autumn coming. On Sunday morning, I stood on my deck and looked at the colors. Greens and golds. And a sky that is open and blue without the tops of tall buildings intruding upon it.
I'm reminded of the saying, 'take time to smell the roses'. What is it about the places we live? Why do some prefer the harshness and coldness of the city, and others a small town, or the country? What does it say about our personalities?
I suppose for me I want the quiet and beauty of the country. I'm not an ocean person either, though the waves crashing on a shoreline is glorious to behold. I prefer the sound of birds echoing in the forests, and the thunder of a rushing trout stream.
Why do you life where you live, and how does it affect you as a writer? Could you write well living in the city, aloft in an apartment skyscraper. Or would the country inspire your craft?