As I strolled through High Bridge Park in upper Manhattan, I saw the Harlem River Drive and the Major Deegan Expressway below. Traffic was moderate for a Saturday. I heard a train whistle in the distance. My eyes located an Amtrak train heading south.
The sound of the whistle brought me back to my childhood on Staten Island. My family lived near a train yard where daily I heard the train whistle. Many stories are spun from memories of childhood. I was fortunate to have had a wonderful childhood. I believe many of my stories come from the wonderful experiences I enjoyed as a child.
When I read books and poems by my favorite authors, I am struck by how much their childhood experiences affected them. Writing can reflect those experiences, whether pleasant or bitter. Herman Melville wrote of his adventures on the sea. He was quite young when he began his journey. Beat writer Jack Kerouac was deeply affected by the death of his 9-year-old brother, Gerard, to rheumatic fever. Poet Mary Oliver spent many hours in nature during her childhood.
I'm happy about the childhood memories I experienced. The train whistle brought me back nearly seven decades to some wonderful times.
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