I have been listening to country music lately. Shocking, I know, but in all reality, it isn't too strange.
I have been listening to George Strait, Randy Travis and other similar artists and I am suddenly transported like a time machine back to the late 1980s, sitting in the front seat of our dirty salvaged black pickup, the dogs hanging their heads out the camper window and the crackly radio sending out twang. The sweet pine and dust breeze whipping my hair on a hot day (my father didn't believe in air conditioning); towering trees and expansive vistas peeking through the dog-slobbered windows.
Simple memories, non specific, blurring into the category of "childhood" yet important nevertheless. Country music, the truck, and nature all intertwine as a common thread in my childhood. These are not the type of memory you could take a photo of and hang on your wall. Rather, these memories are like a common thread in a tapestry; when you look at the woven image you see a specific vivid memory but it is these background memories that are the threads that bind the beautiful memory together. Without them, the image falls apart.