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