| My parental roots were formed in the clay
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| | occasionally broken by fighter jets from
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| packed soil of small towns in the Deep
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| | Andrews Air Force Base roaring across the
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| South. From Cuthbert, Georgia to Marks,
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| | skies or a tractor sputtering along Oxen
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| Mississippi to Booneville, California
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| | Hill Road. Once part of small town
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| some of my adult sensibilities also were
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| | America, Oxen Hill now is a toney,
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| shaped by small town America. But it was
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| | sprawling suburb just outside Washington,
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| the summer of my greatest content that
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| | D.C.Mornings began early that summer of
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| formed another essential dimension of my
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| | my eleventh year. I eagerly rose with the
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| character.In 1955, Oxen Hill, Maryland
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| | sun that seemingly covered all the sky in
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| was a place where the sacred silence was
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| | Oxen Hill.
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