I was born in Seattle, at the Swedish Hospital to be exact, September 14, 19.. I’m not embarrassed to say the year; however, people think I look younger than I am. As more birthdays accumulate, I think I’d like to keep it that way.
My parents were pretty excited to have me. My older brother had been an only child for fifteen-plus years. My parents didn’t think they could have any more children. When my Mom told my Dad, “It’s time,” my Dad got in the car and started driving, without my Mom–sorta like in the movies. When he came back, my Mom was packed and ready. Both my Mom and my Brother got in the car and my Dad took off. The story goes that he drove ninety-miles-an-hour all the way to the hospital. When he got to the hospital, he pulled into the service station across the street and said, “Fill-er up. And, check the oil.” It took my Mom nearly twenty hours of labor to bring me into the world, so I guess my Dad knew he had time. My Mom didn’t see it the same way, so, my arrival was marked by typically stormy Seattle weather, both inside and outside the hospital.
I don’t live in Seattle, any more. My Dad has passed away, and my Mom’s memory has faded. But, I still go back, whenever I can. I’m a Seahawks fan. I’m a Mariners fan, except when they play the Dodgers, and I still think the skyline is one of the most beautiful in the world, especially when the sun shines. I’m connected to the place where I started, the place I grew up, the place I called home when I made choices that still define who I am.
Now, when I do go back, I take my camera, I suppose, to capture the images that still show up in my dreams.