Sydney Avey
Dynamic Woman — Changing Times
Home, A magical place
Where is home? Is it a place, a memory, a fantasy, an inheritance? If I designed a perfume to spritz me back to halcyon childhood it would boast the scent of fresh cut lumber, sweet and slightly acidic. It would be lush with undertones of Italian plums grounded and softening in the sun.
Growing up in the Valley of the Heart’s Delight, our playgrounds were old orchards and new housing sites. My sister and I scuffed our feet to make sawdust piles on the rough floorboards. We examined the wall frames, collected bent nails and pounded together blocks of wood with a contraband hammer to form chairs and tables. We idled in our plein-air fantasy and dreamed of what we would do when we had houses of our own. It was the 1950s.
I chose to set The Sheepwalker in the fifties. It was a hopeful time, when the men who returned from WWII were lavished with appreciation, free educations and cheap home loans. It was also a time when women had sampled independence and some liked the taste. The sleepy world of Santa Clara Valley in California was on the cusp of change.
Poet Robert Southey wrote:
There is magic in the little world, home. It is a mystic circle that surrounds comforts and virtues never known beyond its hallowed limits.
Perhaps home is where you find your comforts and virtues.
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This is so beautiful. I remember my “growing up days” with such sweetness. We grew up in a small village in Oklahoma. We played house under a bridge and would slide down the red hillsides with cardboard boxes. Our dog, Blackie, had red whiskers because of the dirt. We’d say goodbye to Mama in the morning and play until lunchtime. No worries, just carefree, calorie-burning frolicking. There is something magical and mystical about our heart’s home. Thanks for reminding us.