29 May 2007
This side of the Sound
A girl is moved to write about her hometown:
Seattle is a trail of small footprints on a grey, deserted beach ... fallen, rotted logs on wet sand ... the harsh cries of sea birds gliding on currents of sea air. Ice water flowing over skin, gritty and oozing between toes, and wind slapping you is Seattle.
Seattle is a grey, tangled tree covered with fresh green leaves, the sweet smell of newly cut grass, rich, soft dirt that crumbles in your hand and spills through tightly-clenched fingers, a drop of water trembling on a flower petal.
Seattle has the scent of burning wood, the mingled sound of cars and voices, the taste of raindrops on your tongue, the sight of battered houses with staring, broken windows.
Seattle is rain running over faces and soaking through shoes as you run down a deserted road, walking through an overgrown field singing elf songs, sitting under a tree eating green apples, or rolling down a steep, grassy hill.
It goes on for a couple more paragraphs: just from the sound of it I am persuaded that Shelley Brittingham, who wrote this when she was 16, did all these things and more.
(Found in American Girl, July 1970.)Posted at 6:56 AM to The Way We Were