“The Memory Place” by Barbara Kings

“The Memory Place” by Barbara Kingsolver
published in High Tide in Tuscon
This is the kind of April morning no other month can touch: a world tinted in water
color pastels of redbud, dogtooth violet, and gentle rain. The trees are beginning to
shrug off winter; the dark, leggy maple woods are shot through with gleaming
constellations of white dogwood blossoms. The road winds through deep forest near
Cumberland Falls, Kentucky, carrying us across the Cumberland Plateau toward Horse
Lick Creek. Camille is quiet beside me in the front seat, until at last she sighs and says,
with a child’s poetic logic, “This reminds me of the place I always like to think about.”
Me too, I tell her. It’s the exact truth. I grew up roaming wooded hollows like
these, though they were more hemmed-in, keeping their secrets between the wide-open
cattle pastures and tobacco fields of Nicholas County, Kentucky. My brother and sister
and I would hoist cane fishing poles over our shoulders, as if we intended to make
ourselves useful, and head out to spend a Saturday doing nothing of the kind. We
haunted places we called the Crawdad Creek, the Downy Woods (for downy woodpeckers
and also for milkweed fluff), and – thrillingly, because we’d once found big bones there –
Dead Horse Draw. We caught crawfish with nothing but patience and our hands, boiled
them with wild onions over a campfire, and ate them and declared them the best food on
earth. We collected banana-scented paw-paw fruits, and were tempted by fleshy, fawncolored
mushrooms but left those alone. We watched birds whose names we didn’t know
build nests in trees whose names we generally did. We witnessed the unfurling of
hickory and oak and maple leaves in the springtime, so tender as to appear nearly edible;
we collected them and pressed them with a hot iron under waxed paper when they
blushed and dropped in the fall. Then we waited again for spring, even more impatiently
than we waited for Christmas, because its gifts were more abundant, needed no
batteries, and somehow seemed more exclusively ours. I can’t imagine that any
discovery I ever make, in the rest of my life, will give me the same electric thrill I felt
when I first found little righteous Jack in his crimson-curtained pulpit poking up from
the base of a rotted log.
These were the adventures of my childhood: tame, I guess, by the standards
established by Mowgli the Jungle Boy or even Laura Ingalls Wilder. Nevertheless, it was
the experience of nature, with its powerful lessons in static change and predictable
surprise. Much of what I know about life, and almost everything I believe about the way
I want to live, was formed in those woods. In times of acute worry or insomnia or
physical pain, when I close my eyes and bring to mind the place I always like to think
about, it looks like the woods in Kentucky

Kết quả (Anh) 1:

"The Memory Place" by Barbara Kingsolverpublished in High Tide in TusconThis is the kind of April morning, no other month can touch: a tinted print water worldcolor pastels of redbud, dogtooth violet, and gentle rain. The trees are beginning toshrug off winter; the dark, leggy maple woods are shot through with gleamingconstellations of white dogwood blossoms. The road winds through deep forest nearCumberland Falls, Kentucky, carrying us across the Cumberland Plateau toward HorseLick Creek. Camille is quiet beside me in the front seat, until at last she sighs and says,with a child's poetic logic, "This reminds me of the place I always like to think about." Me too, I tell her. It's the exact truth. I grew up roaming none hollows likeThese, though they were more hemmed-in, keeping their secrets between the wide-opencattle pastures and tobacco fields of Nicholas County, Kentucky. My brother and sisterand I would hoist cane fishing poles over our shoulders, as if we intended to makeourselves useful, and head out to spend a Saturday doing nothing of the kind. Wehaunted places we called the Crawdad Creek, the Downy Woods (for downy woodpeckersand also for milkweed fluff), and-we'd, because once thrillingly found big bones there-Dead Horse Draw. We caught crawfish with nothing but patience and our hands, boiledthem with wild onions over a campfire, and ate them and declared them the best food onEarth. We collected banana-scented-paw paw fruits, and were tempted by fleshy, fawncoloredmushrooms but left those alone. We watched the birds whose names we didn't knowbuild nests in trees whose names we generally did. We witnessed the unfurling ofHickory and oak and maple leaves in the springtime, so tender as to appear nearly edible;We collected them and pressed them with a hot iron under waxed paper when theyblushed and dropped in the fall. Then we waited again for spring, even more impatientlythan we waited for Christmas, because its gifts were more abundant, needed nobatteries, and somehow seemed more exclusively ours. I can't imagine that anydiscovery I ever make, in the rest of my life, will give me the same electric thrill I feltWhen I first found little righteous Jack in his crimson-curtained pulpit poking up fromthe base of a rotted log. These were the adventures of my childhood: tame, I guess, by the standardsestablished by Mowgli the Jungle Boy or even Laura Ingalls Wilder. Nevertheless, it wasthe experience of nature, with its powerful lessons in static and predictablesurprise. Much of what I know about life, and almost everything I believe about the wayI want to live, was well-formed in those woods. In times of acute worry or insomnia orphysical pain, when I close my eyes and bring to mind the place I always like to thinkabout, it looks like the woods in Kentucky

Kết quả (Anh) 2:

"The Memory Place" by Barbara Kingsolver
published in High Tide in Tuscon
This is the kind of no other month April morning can touch: a tinted world in water
color pastels of Redbud, dogtooth violet, and gentle rain. The trees are beginning to
shrug off the winter; the dark, leggy maple woods are shot through with gleaming
constellations of white Dogwood blossoms. The road winds through deep forest near
Cumberland Falls, Kentucky, across the Cumberland Plateau Carrying us Toward Horse
Lick Creek. Camille is quiet in the front seat Beside me, an until at Last SHE sighs and says,
with a child's Poetic logic, "This reminds me of the place I always like to think about."
Me too, I tell her Artist. It's the exact truth. I Grew up roaming wooded hollows like
những, though They were more hemmed-in, ask for their keeping secrets wide-open giữa
cattle pastures and tobacco fields of Nicholas County, Kentucky. My brother and sister
and I would hoist cane fishing poles over our shoulders, as if intended to make chúng
ích Ourselves, and head out to spend a Saturday doing nothing of the kind. We
haunted places chúng gọi the Crawdad Creek, the Downy Woods (Downy Woodpeckers for
milkweed fluff and cũng for), and - thrillingly, Because We'd once found big bones there -
Dead Horse Draw. We caught nothing but patience and crawfish with our hands, boiled
with wild onions added over a campfire, and ate added and tuyên bố add the best food on
earth. We thập paw-paw banana-Scented fruits, and là tempted by fleshy, fawncolored
mushrooms những but left alone. We watched birds did not know có names chúng
build Nests in trees có Generally chúng names did. We witnessed the unfurling of
hickory and oak and maple leaves in the springtime, compared to vẻ Nearly tender as edible;
chúng thập added and pressed with a hot iron added waxed paper under khi chúng
blushed and dropped in the fall. We waited again for spring latch, thậm more impatiently
than we waited for Christmas, its vì là more abundant gifts, needed no
batteries, and somehow more Seemed Exclusively ours. I can not imagine any mà
discovery I Ever make, in the rest of my life, will give me the same electric thrill I Felt
When I first found little Righteous crimson-curtained his Jack in the pulpit poking up from
the base of a rotted log .
These Were the adventures of my Childhood: tame, I guess, by the Standards
established by Mowgli the Jungle Boy Laura Ingalls Wilder or even level. Nevertheless, it was
the experience of nature, with its powerful lessons in static change and predictable
surprise. Much of what I know about life, and almost everything I believe about the way
I want to live, was formed in những woods. In times of acute worry or insomnia or
physical pain, When I Close My Eyes and bring to mind the place I always like to think
about, it looks like the woods in Kentucky