Patch Quilt

Bits and pieces of all kinds of stuff can add up to make an interesting tableau.  A friend recently asked if I missed living in Washington, D.C. where it was 60 degrees while we in Ohio were experiencing yet another biting cold day in our current very cold and snowy winter.  I told her I always miss Washington, D.C., remembering very well the Federal City filled with flowering trees and multitudes of daffodils cascading down hillsides on Rock Creek Parkway.  I only lived there – off of DuPont Circle and later in Friendship Heights just this side of Bethesda, Maryland, for about three years altogether, but the time I spent there is deeply etched in my heart.   I especially loved the Jefferson Memorial with the Cherry Blossom trees surrounding the tidal basin.  Vivid as if it were yesterday, the hot humid days that were 85 degrees at ten o’clock at night, the walking home from Corcoran School of art and stopping at my friend, Dick’s apartment for a cup of tea and talk before crossing 19th Street to my own apartment.   

Each segment of my life has been like a different colored and textured piece of fabric all stitched together to make a patch quilt, or a bit of an eclectic passage through this dimension.  Childhood, as offspring of the depression day generation , the teenage years and high school, post high school years all built a fairly solid foundation – education, assorted interests, friendships,  work, all contributed to what I had become when I moved to Washington, D.C.

Ah, then there was California.  You can take the girl out of California, but you cannot take California out of the girl, or something like that.  Some years after moving back to Ohio, divorced and with my two young children, my youngest Aunt said I still looked like a Californian. That is okay with me.  While I think of myself as cosmopolitan more than a citizen of anyplace in particular, I do have a sense that I’ve come full circle and have no need to uproot again.      

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