Where We Come From

I thought I would take a moment to explain the "why" behind the name"Boy In The Field"... particularly since I was advised against naming this blog exactly that. I'm a firm believer that you have to know where you have been to know where you are going. Sure, you should look ahead and live in the moment yadda yadda yadda, but if you forget where you've been and the things that have made you the person you are today then I'm fairly certain that you will find yourself lost. I will agree that there are parts of where we have been that might not always be pretty, or what we would like them to have been, but that is all part of the process.

I grew up in a house that was across a field from the farmhouse where my mother was raised. I will always be thankful for that because it meant that all I had to do to get to my grandmother was cross the field... a journey I made daily (often several times daily) right up until her alzheimer's had advanced to a place where she was no longer able to live in the house, even with 24 hour care.

When I was very young my grandfather would sit at the kitchen window and watch for me to go outside and play in the yard. He did this every morning from what I have been told. My brother and I were the youngest of their grandchildren, you might say we were the end of an era for the two of them. My grandfather passed away after a battle with cancer when I was just barely five years old. He was sitting at the window with a bowl of cornflakes beside him, watching for me to come outside.

I spent every waking moment as a child underneath my grandmother's feet...I would cross the field every chance I could get - barely opening the door to my house long enough to scream "I'm going to Nannie's" before motoring down the stairs, across the lawn and into the hayfield that was between her house and mine. It was a journey that I (and my little brother) made so often that there was a well defined path from her door to mine. Years after she had moved out of the house itself, and even after she had passed away, you could still make out the faint outline of where that well worn path had once been. I spent my childhood there, in the field and at her side. If I close my eyes and look back I can still feel the hay as it brushed past my bare legs, I can smell the air, I can see the wildflowers that lined the way from my door to hers. When I was very little I would sit beneath her quilting frame as she worked away at a quilt for one of us. When I was older I would sit beside her and help. I can't help but work with my hands, with textiles, creating things to keep people warm.

I can't possibly do the story, nor the reasoning behind the title justice with such a short blurb but that is it in a nutshell. The Coles Notes version, if you will. This is where I came from.

It's who I am. I was, and still am, the boy in the field and that - that is something that you don't ever grow out of... regardless of how urban your existence has become.