In the summer of 1974, Robin Horton (my high school buddy), her mother and I went on a cross country road trip from Manhattan Beach, California to the World’s Fair in Spokane, Washington and then back again.

We traveled for two weeks by car stopping in various places along the way. Three carefree females having a blast riding along in a stretched out Cadillac. Those were the days!

One of our stopping destinations was Idaho Springs, Idaho where we stayed for a couple of days to visit with Robin’s cousins. They lived on a beautiful piece of wooded land that had a stream flowing behind the house.  It was simply breathtaking.

The following year, I wrote a poem to honor our road trip which was published in our high school magazine called, the Polychrome Pen.

Here is a snapshot of the poem as it appears in the magazine. Little did I know that my published work had a few typographical errors. I have corrected the poem below so it reads clearly.

Our Place
I can remember now it’s coming to my mind.
The rocky dirt trail that my friend and I had followed.
Beams of lights peeking through the scattered trees.
Scents of sparkling clean freshness.
The tiny stream that beholds secrets from our sight.
Nature’s noises twinkling in fragrance air.
Animals jumping from our mystery.
Oh Yes!
This was the place, our secluded little forest.

For me, this experience has always held a special place in my heart. It has marked itself in my memory banks for all these years.  Robin was one of my closest and dearest friends during high school and for many years thereafter until she passed.

Over the years, I have had many opportunities to travel across the United States. My three daughters played competitive sports which required us to travel to many out of state tournaments.

During one of our hockey trips, my husband and I stumbled along this wooded path in Schenectady, New York.  Luckily, I had my camera with me to capture this particular photo.

As I looked through my camera lens, I encountered some kind of deja vu (familiarity or already seen) so strong that I could feel Robin’s presence with me as in the summer of 1974. Different locations, but the essence was the same.

An episodic memory is the compilation of past personal accounts that occurred at a particular time and place. Our inward thoughts which can hurl us onto our future actions.

I believe that my art comes from a place deeply rooted within my soul and holds a purpose to my self discovery. The connection of past and present simply exists and is shared through my imagination.

Always,

Cheryl