That Place you Dream About

When I think of childhood memories, there’s one place on the planet I always come back to – the panhandle of Maryland. My mother was born in rural Friendsville, Maryland, as were her parents and her parents’ parents. Honestly, I don’t know how far back it goes. The genealogy bug never bit me. But they were farmers. The land, mostly, is still in the family. I remember spending weeks with my grandparents in the summers, and simply wandering, through the corn fields, the orchards, the old family graveyard, the massive barn full of hay and dust swirling in sunbeams. I recall picking blackberries with Grandma, catching frogs and fishing at the pond with Grandpa, visiting Aunt Ollie down the lane, and collecting lightning bugs in Ball jars at dusk. Idyllic times.

Camping at Swallow Falls State Park was a favorite activity, both with my parents and grandparents.

This is my sister Sue and I (on left) on a camping trip to Swallow Falls. No idea what we’re looking at.

Summertime family outings were most often at Herrington Manor State Park, picnicking and swimming in the lake. I grew up at these two parks that are situated a mere 4-5 miles from each other. And I continued to go there as an adult. Every new guy I ever went out with, Swallow Falls was always one of our earliest dates. I needed to know if they would love it, too.

That 1979 guy. Muddy Creek Falls is behind us. Curiously, I’m not aware of a photo of my husband and I there. But we definitely camped at Swallow Falls — early in our relationship.

Later, I took my sons there, so they might also fall in love with the land.

Andrew, Eric, and me a decade ago. But we pretty much look the same today. Swallow Falls in the background. It looks the same, too.

I hiked the trail that parallels the river so many times over the course of my life, I still know every rock, every root, every scenic overlook. The trees there became like old friends.

Beth and I camped there once, late 80s. She’s an old friend, too.

The space is hard-wired into my DNA. It’s in my blood. And I miss it – the smell of the forest, the feel of the dirt and rocks and pine-needle carpet beneath my feet, the sound of the river flowing over the rocks, rushing and pounding in some places, trickling in others, the wisdom of ancient trees, the flourish of fuchsia when the rhododendrons are in full bloom.

Tulliver Falls

Nineteen years ago, my husband moved our family to Louisiana. And I can’t tell you how much I miss these places, with every fiber of my being.

Fishing with my dad and grandfather at Herrington Manor State Park. I am three months pregnant with my twin boys here, and sitting on the dam that the CCC built to create this lake. This is the project the CCC works on in my novel.

Is it any wonder that, when I decided to write a story about the Civilian Conservation Corps, I chose Swallow Falls and Herrington Manor, places I love and know intimately, as the setting? I’m so grateful to the CCC for building these two parks. Once completed, I intend to dedicate the book to the men who served in CCC Camp 304, in what was Swallow Falls State Forest in the 1930s.

Around 2009, I wrote a poem about Swallow Falls State Park.

River Falls

The air smells of childhood memories,

wood smoke and wildflowers,

dampness, primordial decay.

Distant sounds of rushing, roaring river beckon.

Pine needles cushion rocky, rooted paths.

Slippery sage moss clings to

icy trickling springs.

Ancient ledges beg exploration.

Towering virgins,

white pine and hemlock,

ache for long lost solitude,

reluctantly share

their sanctuary.

Looking downriver from Swallow Falls

So, where is that spot for you? That place you dream about and you can’t wait to return to? That source of fond memories that has stolen your heart and you can’t live without? That place that changes your life and touches you so deeply it inspires you to write poetry?