Jessica Burson Space/Place Essay

http://www.gladstone.mo.us/Recreation/theatre_in_the_park.php
http://www.heartoftheweb.net/gladstonetip/


Space and place are terms, which are generally used interchangeable. I do not usually pay attention to what word I use in which instance, but now that I have to distinguish between them, I see that there are distinctions. But, I do not believe I would have been able to find their separating qualities without our class discussion. Space is something you use for one certain purpose, but after that it holds no meaning. In a space you are able to move freely through it without any emotional connection to it. An example of a space is a gas station. Generally, all gas stations look similarly and are meant for one purpose. They are not designed, or intended to create attachment, it is merely a means to an end. On the contrary, a place is more specific. A place is somewhere that holds meaning to someone. A place is special to one person, not everyone has the same connection to that location. An example of a place is the house you grew up in. To other people, your childhood house is just a typical house, it is a space, but to you it is meaningful. You hold a personal connection to that house, and to you it is a place. To most people, the Gladstone Theatre in the Park Amphitheatre is a space, but to me it is a place. This theatre holds a very special place in my heart.

The amphitheater is in Oak Grove Park, in Gladstone, Missouri. Since it is an outdoor theatre, there is no seating, only the stage. The building is a permanent structure with a six fly system, orchestra pit, two light trellises, and a dressing room. The park itself is small and intimate. The community is also little, so it fits them perfectly. The program is volunteer based, but the City of Gladstone funds the overall production. At each show buckets are passed around through the audience to gather donations to help pay for maintenance and improvements on the theatre. When Van and Susie Ibsen started the program, the stage was portable and the shows were short. As the program grew, a permanent stage was built in the park. The entire stage burned down though, and was rebuilt with the honorary title of “Ibsen Stage”. The theatre is not very different from any other outdoor theatre, but what it means to the people involved it was makes it different. The feeling people have toward this theatre is what qualifies it as a place, not a space.

As I said, a place is a location that you have an emotional connection to, and the Ibsen Stage is one that I feel very strongly connected to. Dance and theatre have been a major part of my life since I can remember. I spent every summer out at Oak Grove Park, watching shows, performing in them, or working on them. That stage became my second home; it is where most of my good memories come from. To this day, if I feel sad, alone, anxious, anything, I go up to the park and I am able to relax. When I am on the stage I do not have to think about anything else. The stage brings me excitement, love, and enjoyment. I am able to connect with people I may have never met by being on that stage. By watching me perform, people believe they know me, and I them. Just being in the park brings back all the good memories. All of the standing ovations, all of the whistles, all of the pictures taken, it makes me feel special and like I am impacting the lives of others. The stage itself may not do anything, but what it allows for is great. The stage itself is not what I am connected to; it is the combination of the stage, the park, and the memories that go along with them.

I realize that the stage is just a building, but that does not matter. That building brings people together. That structure brings about ten thousand people a night to watch a performance. It brings people from all over the community together, when in everyday life they would never cross paths. The stage will be there for a very long time. Other parts of my life may be changing, but I am always able to return to it. It never loses its meaning, because I will never forget those memories. It will remain a place to me forever, because I will remember everything wonderful that happened while I was there, forever.

A place, to me is a location that feels like more than a structure or piece of land, it holds a place in your heart unlike any other. There are many locations that are special to me, but none that jump in to my head like Gladstone Theatre in the Park. My house from when I grew up holds a lot of memories, but it does not give me the same feeling. When I think about my family the memories are stronger than when I think of the house I lived in. I do not see many of the people I did theatre with any more though, but I can always go and visit that stage. The stage is what holds all the memories. That stage is where I met my first boyfriend, and my best friend. Another friend was proposed to on that stage. The last time my grandparents were able to watch me dance was on that stage. I learned a lot about myself by doing theatre there, and I was able to overcome many fears I once had. That theatre is what showed me what I love and why I love it. Without that theatre I would never have been able to realize my love for theatre and dance. Without those experiences, I would not be the same person I am today. A place is more than a location, it is a treasure. No one else will ever feel the same way I do about that stage, but that it was makes it special, it is my own connection that no one else will ever have, and no one else will ever be able to take away from me, and that is why Ibsen Stage is a place, not a space.

Kelli Hardy

I’m from a rural area that has more farmland than people. The only seasons are green and brown. Summer, fall, winter, and most of spring blend together. In a town where the only place to go on a Friday night is Wal-Mart, teenagers had to find entertainment in any place they could. In high school my friends rediscovered our love of parks. It was free, close, and the only oasis of green in a world full of brown. Getzandaner Memorial Park in the neighboring town was where we began to find refuge.

The first time I went there it was large and overwhelmingly. The park is 33 acres, but the part with play equipment is between two and three acres. Once you pass the wooden sign declaring, “Getzendaner Park,” you drive on one-way, asphalt, oval, which encircles the actual play equipment. There are trees, slides, bathrooms, numerous swing sets, and picnic tables. The trees seem to canopy the entire area, so the children are always playing in the shade, and if you swing high enough, stick your legs straight up, and point your toes, you can almost touch the leaves hanging from their branches. This is not what interests me though. Behind the play equipment, and over the wooden bridge, there are narrow dirt paths that dissect, and wind. No matter, which one you take, you end up peering over the edge of the creek, or facing a barbwire fence, equipped with a “No Trespassing” sign, that protects a wheat field from hooligans. In this wooded area there are fallen trees, and large trees whose trunks are protected by thorns, and all kinds of undergrowth, that you should not dawdle in. The fallen trees are perfect for climbing upon, and announcing to your friends your dominion over them.

There is a six-mile concrete trail that begins in Getzandaner Park, hugs the Waxahachie creek, follows the tracks of an abandoned railroad for a while, goes to Lion’s Park, and then backtracks back to Getzendaner. The trail passes Waxahachie Rodeo Arena and Fairgrounds, Rogers Street Bridge south of downtown Waxahachie, and the Old City Cemetery. One day in June, my friend Lauren and I decided to run the entire length of the trail. When we first decided on this feat we really did mean to run the length of the trail. We started on the east side of the park and began jogging west. Along the path there are periodic benches dedicated to certain members of the community, posted signs that encourage you to do muscle training, and granite markers that keep you updated on your progress. There is a granite marker every quarter mile, and there is a business that donated to the trail engraved on the stone.

As we jogged along, I began to familiarize the place. I had always wandered around on the North side of the creek, but now I stood on its opposite banks, and saw things from a different perspective. When I had thought of the park before, my mental map just showed a blob of green on the outskirts of town. Once we started exploring the trail, my mental map began to take shape and form. It wound one way then another. The creek passed under this, across this, over there. I began to draw the winding creek, and the trail’s dedication to it, as we ran along. The park was not a green blob. The creek was a green river that emptied out into the park like a lake.

We jogged past the creek and wooded area, over a wooden bridge, across the abandoned railroad, and across Roger’s Street Bridge. When we reached the other side we noticed an overlook area that was bordered with an iron gate. We noticed that if you jumped over the gate, and too the right, you would land on a large stone. From there you could climb down on top of an eroding drainpipe, and then drop onto the banks of the creek. We promptly did just that. We began to pick our way across the bank. It was early summer so the creek was low, and whenever we needed to cross over to the next bank we would pick up rocks and throw them into the water. We explored the creek for some time. The banks on either side were at least 10 feet tall, and if we used the roots of trees, we could climb up. I became familiar with its currents, and the downward slopes, where the water would begin to tumble over the rocks. The water began to talk here and we would sit and listen to the words it was saying to the world. We went back to the drainage pipe, and climber back up to the top.

Once we had made it back to the original overlook, and climbed back onto the cement sidewalk, we were ready to continue our jog. The rest of the trail was completely in shade. The trees overhung the sidewalk and intertwined their branches with the trees on the other side of the path. The path doubled back upon itself at Lion’s Park. Like everywhere else in Texas in early June the entire park was brown. It was more of a field with one play set sitting alone in the midst of this. Disappointed, we headed back. We went past the same scenery over again, and by the last mile of the trip, darkness had settled over the trail. The summer lightening bugs came out to greet us, and we followed their blinking lights back to my car.

Lauren and I would make this trip several times over the next two years of high school; sometimes alone and sometimes together. This expansive space, had taken on the shape of a place. It was no longer a space I wondered at, but a place I knew. I knew which bridge was my favorite to linger on, because of the view. I knew which benches were the best for people watching, and which were the best for nature watching. I knew the curves of the path and knew my distance from any given point without the mile markers. It is a place that has not changed, and which I still visit, when I go home.

Chesnutt, "The Passing of Grandison"

--How does this story uphold and subvert expectations of the plantation romance?

--Compare the depiction of slaves, their dialect and views on slavery in this story and Page's "Marse Chan."

--As I mentioned in class, this story is written by an African-American author. If you didn't know that this was the case (as was true of perhaps all of the readers when it was first published), do you think you would catch irony or satire here? The online site I used for this text warned readers that it "contains language that may be very offensive to some readers": does it signify differently when such language and depiction of slaves is done by an African-American author?

--Compare the space of this story to the extremely localized space of "Marse Chan": what do you think Chesnutt is saying about African-Americans and slavery by offering this different vision of the space of the story?

Jared Launius' essay: Home is Where the Wart is

The cities act like street signs to warn me how close I am to home as I drive west toward my Kansas City suburb on I-70.

“Welcome to Odessa: Caution: Close to Independence.”

“Welcome to Grain Valley: Ten minutes from Independence, please be advised.”

“Welcome to Blue Springs: five minutes from Independence, turn around.”

Then, finally, Exit 15: “Welcome to Independence, can’t say we didn’t warn you.”

I’ve gotten to the point now where I always drive into my hometown at night. That way, by the time I pull into my driveway, I can squint my eyes and just pretend like I’m not surrounded by the home and neighborhood I was reared at. I could be anywhere. Not here, but anywhere else.

It’s early September, and the weather is something I can just feel anytime I want, as I walk in toward the house. The oppressive Missouri summer heat is gone, and the still air feels perfect for the first time in months. Fall is hinting at its arrival, but it’s not something you can see yet. No orange leaves littering your yard, begging for you and your friends to rake them into a pile on the east side of the house big enough to jump in. You just start to feel it.

It’s comfortable.

And it’s annoying. The last place I want to find myself after spending three years carving out a new life in college is this stale place.
I pause on my mom’s porch just long enough to hear the traffic from the highway, just two blocks north. Even in the early hours of the morning, 18-wheelers can be heard moving through the heart of this soulless city. As a kid, my mom never let me go farther south than that highway. Now that I’m old enough to get that far from the house, I don’t ever like coming back.

I pause, set my stuff down, and grab a seat on the sagging, slanted bench on Mom’s porch, the one that was my go-to spot when the kid that lived next door, Josh I think his name was, would come over to trade Pokemon cards.

I let my guard down for the first time, and look up the street that runs north from Mom’s house. But I didn’t really need to do that. I can see that road without my eyes. Hell, I could drive that road without my eyes. It’s uphill, curves left, swerves right, then dumps off on another road after about eight seconds of driving. Turn left and that road dumps off on another in about three seconds. Take a right there, head up the hill and wait at the stoplight that takes for–fucking–ever.

You can get anywhere from that stupid light. That stoplight is six minutes from my high school–four with good traffic. It’s seven minutes from my high school girlfriend’s house. It’s two minutes from McDonald’s. Three minutes from Richard’s Sunfresh, formerly known as Richard’s IGA, formerly my family’s go-to grocer.

But none of that matters. This isn’t my home. That stupid stoplight isn’t my stoplight. That street that curves left then swerves right isn’t my street. This bench isn’t my bench. I’ve got my own stoplight, now, my own street, my own porch.

This town is a dump and this neighborhood is dead. Everyone is white trash and unemployed. It was something I cared about only because it was all that I knew. Columbia is home. Columbia is alive. Things happen there. I’m an adult there. Not here.

No, this space isn’t mine. Not anymore, anyway.

*****

I put my head down and drive my legs through the pedals on my BMX bike. It’s a silver Dyno. It’s awesome.

I build up speed as fast as my bike will carry me then lay off the pedals as I show off by putting my hands behind my head. I coast down the road perpendicular to mine. The early summer morning air whips my short, brown hair around and is doing the same to my best friend, Craig, as he coasts on his bike next to me.

We cut in behind the corner house and, ignoring the “DO NOT ENTER” sign posted in front of the tunnels behind the house, go inside.

We ride down the long cavern, and the other side is the entrance to a bunch of trails Craig and I ride every day, and another sign, this one reading “NO TRESPASSING”. We, of course, ignore it. Mom and dad are at work and, now that I’m 12, my big sister doesn’t really care if I go ride my bike around. She doesn’t know we go back on the trails, and it’s probably best that I keep it that way.

The trail opens up into a huge clearing. These woods are owned by the city, but the trails, and this giant clearing with all its ramps and slopes, have been built by local BMXers like Craig and me. Mom doesn’t like me out here, probably because it’s in the middle of woods a mile from my house. Whatever. I know my way around my neighborhood. I’m not getting lost. This is my neighborhood, my home. I’m fine.

Craig and I spend the most of the morning working on a ramp we’ve been building out here, and then start ramping over it. These bike trails might be Independence’s best-kept secret. I’ll be riding my bike back here forever.

Around noon, it gets too hot to be outside riding around on bikes, so Craig and I decide to ride back to his house, where he has a pool. On our ride back, we talk about how awesome it will be when we turn 16 and get our driver’s licenses. How awesome it will be to drive ourselves to high school. How awesome it will be to go to the movie theater and mall over on 39^th Street without our parents. How awesome it will be to be able to go get fast food whenever we want. This neighborhood is ours now, in a few years this city will be ours, we say.

*****

I’m back in Columbia a few weeks later. My friend’s girlfriend, who is from a really wealthy Kansas City suburb called Brookside, is talking about home.

“What did you guys think about Independence when you were growing up?” I ask.

She doesn’t even hesitate. “White trash. Old.”

I knew the answer was coming, but I feel aggravation beginning to bubble under my skin.

That’s my home you’re talking about, chick. Sorry I didn’t grow up in a fucking Brookside villa with the Desperate Housewives. Sure its got warts. Find me somewhere that doesn't.

Whatever. I rejoin conversation and forget about what she said.

It doesn’t matter to me anyway, right?

Schroeder Creek: Julie Arndt Place Essay

I'm home for the weekend and already I am bored with my surroundings. Everything in the house is the same as it always is. My mother is cooking away in the kitchen while she casually spies on the neighbors, commenting on their numerous misdeeds. My dad is sleeping in his chair with the sound on the television up as loud as it can go, and with surround sound the house shakes every time there is a battle scene in the history show that he is "watching". I have to get away from this monotonous and lackluster scene, so I quietly slip into my flip flops, go out the back door, and stroll across the backyard to the creek that flows at the end of the grass. I jump across the creek using the trusty boulders that peek out of the water like icebergs. From there I walk to the overhanging roots of the tree and take a seat in one of the best chairs I've ever had the fortune to sit on. This is not just a space in which I happen to come occasionally to see the pretty sights; this is the place I used to come to everyday when I was a child. A place where I could do anything or absolutely nothing, and it never lost its appeal.

There are two ways one could describe the creek and the surrounding woods; either a space or a place. Space, as defined by Hubbard, is "characterized by velocity, heterogeneity, and flow" (43). Place, however, is defined by Hubbard as "bounded and meaningful" (43). With these definitions in mind, I would choose to describe the creek as a place, or specifically, "my" place. To some this area is just a space in which wildlife grows and flourishes, a space in which the local children go to get messy and full of bug bites and poison ivy. To me, this is a place where I could go to be alone, to be with friends, to plan adventures and be free from the constraints of the rules of adult society.

Perhaps it would be prudent to describe more fully the place that I like to call mine. The creek divides my backyard and the Schroeder Farm. The tree on which I sit is just within the limits of the farmer's property. The roots had grown deep into the bank of the creek and with years of erosion from the constant flow of water, the roots were exposed. The tips of the roots turned right and grew back into the earth, which left an expanse of roots that were sturdy and quite comfortable; creating the perfect sitting spot. I sit among the roots and dip my feet in the water as I watch the little minnows swim to and fro. The wind picks up, rustling the boughs of the trees and I can smell the wildflowers that grow on the banks of the creek. The quiet whispers of the leaves and sweet smell brings memories of the summers I used to spend here with my friends, gallivanting in the creek and the woods. The sunshine peeks through the leaves and branches of the trees lining the water that create an enclosed but free little world.

As I sit musing, the cows grazing in the pasture behind get curious and come over to greet me. I used to observe these cows a great deal when I was younger, as they are strange creatures. There is always an adventurous cow or two that would come over with the calves to see what I was up to. I loved watching them grow from little calves that could barely run without falling over to fat cows that basked in the sunny pasture all day. These creatures are so simple in their day to day lives. Their only tasks for the day are to graze and sleep and, if I just happened to be there, they come and stare at me with their big, docile eyes hardly blinking, while chewing on cud and, occasionally, look longingly at the creek. At one time, I believe the fence that divides their pasture from the creek and my backyard was nonexistent and these cows would have been able to bathe in the cool creek water, but the development of my neighborhood has cut them away from that.

Scanning the water below me, I search for any poisonous snakes or snapping turtles that may take a liking to my flesh and, finding none, I jump into the creek. Now the water in this part of the creek is about five feet deep, one of the deepest parts of the stream, and it is the best spot to swim. My friends and I would swim here as children when the Missouri summer would become too much to bear. We would splash each other and a brave few (I was always too afraid to do this myself) would climb to the first limb of the tree and cannonball in; an impressive feat as the limb was extremely difficult to climb onto as it was six feet up the trunk of the tree. We would imagine that we had the spirit of Huckleberry Finn, wanting to be outdoors and having the freedom that we always desired. We would swim all day and, to dry off, we would go back to sitting on the tree root, warming ourselves in the sun and letting the soft summer breeze sweep over us without a care in the world.

The root chair was also the best spot to catch the local wildlife. My friends had a fascination with the mudpuppies and crawdads that hid at the bottom of the water. We would watch out for anything that moved on the floor of the creek, and if we were lucky, we could catch the mudpuppies as they tried to scamper out of their holes to fetch food. My friends would try to take them home in a tank, but I could never bring myself to entrap one of these strange animals. Mudpuppies are a type of salamander that live in Missouri creeks and, in a way, they were cute with their flat bodies and the fringed gills. They deserved to live out their lives in the peaceful creek that was their home, where they were free, not in a water tank to be stared and poked at my small children. I have to say I have liberated a fair share of mudpuppies from the greedy hands of my friends.

As I muse on the memories I have of this spot, I realize how much of it is no longer there. The developing community has taken its toll on the creek. Houses were built right along the creek, and in order to stop the flooding that occurs every year in spring due to the rainstorms, the city widened the creek. They have taken out many trees and plants that were essential to the ecosystem of creek life. I no longer see the animals that once gave me joy to see, though the cows still come up to say hello, and I am glad that part has not changed. My tree is still there, the roots still providing rest to anyone who searches for it. This little part is still enclosed from the outside world, but the outside world has grown bigger while this one grew smaller.

There is no way I could ever think of this as a simple space. This place is too complex and holds too much to ever be that simple. Even with all of the changes that have occurred since my childhood, I still consider this creek, this tree to be "my" place, as it holds my memories and my adventurous spirit; it still gives me the freedom that I desire. I am as much of a part of this place as is the tree, the cows, and the ever present creek.

Amanda Koellner's Place Essay

Pulling into my grandpa’s (Papa) West Des Moines neighborhood elicits a wide range of emotions from me, ranging from exhilaration to nostalgia to longing. When I’m driving down the gravel road, aptly named “The Dusty Road” by my brother and I when were children, I’m about to see family that I haven’t seen in a long while. I’m flooded with childhood memories of visiting several times a year– swimming in the pool and lake, swinging on the yellow wood swing my uncle made for us, and staying up late watching a wide range of movies with my grandmother (Omi), often ones I probably shouldn’t have been watching (let’s just say I had no idea what Pretty Woman was really about the first time I saw it, and to this day I can’t enter the ocean past my thighs thanks to Jaws). Finally, I’m saddened by the fact that my Omi will not be there to great me with a warm embrace like she did for so many years, because she died of Leukemia when I was in eighth grade.

A place is defined by “the lived experiences of people” (Hubbard 41) and my Papa’s house is not characterized by the six acres of gardens, the pasture where their horse, Thunder, spends his lazy days under the Oak trees or the way the lake feels when you jump off the dock on a summer day. It’s characterized by the memories we’ve made, my parents, brother and myself, my mom’s two brothers, and their families coming together. About 51 weeks of the year we’re split up among Iowa, Missouri, Minnesota and Texas so for one week a year, normally around the Forth of July, we congregate at the special house in Iowa for days in the sun and nights filled with wine and laughter around the pool, sitting under the arbor with its trumpet vines hanging overhead.

When I tell friends how excited I am for my Iowa adventure, they often question my sanity and assume I’m going to spend a week staring at a cornfield. I don’t exaggerate when I say that my Papa’s house is absolutely gorgeous. Before my Omi passed away, she was featured in several-page spread in an issue of Country Gardens because the house and the land surrounding it have truly become breathtaking. My mom often refers to the house as “a little resort” and she’s completely correct. The six acres are surrounded by not only the gardens but also by lush forests; so when lounging by the pool I can’t help but feel a sense of peace, calm and utter relaxation. Wandering down the hill in the backyard that leads to the small community lake, I often stop in my tracks to simply enjoy what is around. Jane Austen once said, “to sit in the shade on a fine day and look upon verdure is the most perfect refreshment.” After a day outdoors, no word could describe how I feel better than refreshed. After everyone showers and cleans up for dinner, we enjoy the outdoors once again and dine al fresco if the weather permits. For all of these reasons, I believe the landscape, or “specific arrangement or pattern of ‘things on the land’” has definitely played a part in making this the most important place in my life (Mitchell 49).

When I look at pictures of the house when the first bought it in the ‘80s, I picture my Omi and Papa making their way up the dusty road and down the curvy grey paved driveway to see a space. They see a nice house, but it means nothing to them yet. They might imagine moving their two boys and little girl there; they might picture them playing in the front yard, which lacked the greenery and splendor it now possesses, but until they began to make memories and create a lived-in world around them, it was merely a space. Now, after Christmases and Forth of Julys spent sledding down the hill towards the lake or doing cannonballs into the pool, I can’t imagine my life without this place in it and I will forever be thankful that my Papa was able to create such a wonderful place for his family.

My late grandmother said in the interview with Country Gardens that she loves being outside, even in the dead of winter. “When I walk down and look at this flower garden, and all the pretty colors in it, it gives me great joy,” she said. Although my heart aches when I look at the article and think of how much more time I would have loved with her, I have to smile because although she is gone, the gardens still exist and the people who love her can exist in them. As I make my way down past the conifers and hostas, around the perennial bed and past the small garden house, I feel like she is with me. Gazing at the lush ferns, into the beds of roses and daylilies, I remember summer days as a child when I would happily stand by my Omi’s side like a surgeon’s assistant. I would hand her the spade like a scalpel and the trowel when she needed it.

Although my Omi is no longer there, the memories and the sense of place is as strong as ever between my parents, brother, uncles, aunts, cousins and Papa. I dunk my cousin Jack in the pool, talk about post-college adventures with my Uncle Paul over a glass of white wine and listen to my Papa ask me questions about the boys in my life and all I can do is smile, because I am at home.

Em Cashman Outside Place

I sit with my toes in the sand, staring out on Lake Michigan at sunset. The water is so calm, the sun looks hazy as it lowers itself into the mirror-like water. I love this stretch of beach. I’ve spent every summer in Door County, Wisconsin since I was two years old. Our cabin sits on the waterfront. On either side there are other cabins which are rented out to other families for days or weeks at a time.

I’ve spent countless days on this very beach… Numerous sunburns, sailboat rides and sandcastles. I know by heart the noise the lighthouse makes on foggy nights to warn boats of hidden dangers. I remember the night me and my brothers made our very own bonfire pit. We searched all day for the biggest rocks we could find and used them to make a circular fire pit. And I remember how proud we were of ourselves and how proud our dad was of us. I know where we buried our childhood pet, Joker, seven summers ago. My brothers and I constructed a cross out of branches and tied it together with birch tree bark. I know where mine and my brothers names are crudely carved into the wood bench next to our cabin and I remember vividly the night we did it. Times were tough, my dad had lost his job and my parents told us that they might have to sell the cabin. Me and my brothers were worried this could be our last summer at the lake so we made a pact to leave our mark forever. We waited until our parents went to bed, grabbed our flashlights and ran barefoot to the bench. We used my older brothers pocket knife he got from Boy Scout camp and each carved our names into the bench along with the date – 1997. 13 years later and that cabin is still ours… and our names are still on that bench.

To me, this is not a space, but a place. Sure, it’s a long stretch of beach lined with cabins, but this particular section of beach is my place. Place has no scale, but is created and maintained through people’s emotional attachment (Hubbard 42). There is definitely years of emotion invested in this beach. To have a sense of place, it is necessary to have a deep-rooted bond between people and place (43). I feel the bond with this place, not only because of my physical markings such as a pet grave and carved initials, but because I know this place intimately. I know how that it takes exactly 14 steps to reach the bonfire pit. I know that your feet will finally hit water another 22 large steps beyond that. I know that the first sandbar exists just beyond where the water hits my chest. This beach is without a doubt and indication of stability and security (43). I feel more safe here then I do at a grandparents house or in a familiar classroom. This is my home for 3 months out of every year. And even though I am not inside a building per say, this beach has become as much home to me as any house could ever be.

This particular location is a complex one, though. Sure, for me it is a place. I’ve spent the last 19 summers here and made deep emotional connections. But for others this is merely a space. They stay at cabins for a couple days, maybe a week or two and then leave and continue on with their lives. Children run up and down the beach with kites and spend seven days building sand castles and eating sandwiches on blankets. But to them this is just a space they are staying for a week or so. Space is related to freedom and mobility, and for these families a week on the beach is very freeing for them (43). In the Hubbard essay, it is argued that a location cannot be both a place and a space (43). I agree that it cannot be both for the SAME person. But a location can be a place for one person, and a space for another. In the essay, Hubbard says that a certain urban structure can be a space for most people, but it is a place for a migrant who views this location as their home (45). This comparison applies as well to my stretch of beach. But this location doesn’t belong to me, It doesn’t belong to anyone. Yes, I may own the cabin but the beach belongs to everyone so how can it be a place to me? I sit and wonder how long does it take for a space to become a place? How many summers did I come here until I made a deep connection with this beach? So deep that I felt so much stability and safety, even when completey alone in the darkness of nature. I don’t think it happens all at once. It’s a slow progression and takes time and dedication, much like forming a relationship with a person. It took lots of laughter, tears, sadness and happiness to reach this point. Of course when I was only a small child I didn’t even realize the connection I was forming with this place. But after years of dedication, this beach started to bear our mark. Our little touches of tree branch crosses, hand made fire pits and carved names made it more like a home then a stretch of land. And maybe it’s just me being prideful, but I think the beach in front of my cabin is prettier then everyone elses.

I don’t know what will happen to this cabin now. Me and my brothers are grown and the allure of a summer without cable, facebook, or working cell phones has (sadly) lost its appeal. Maybe my parents will retire here and this beach will always be our place. And maybe not. Nonetheless, I hope that the next family can have the same connection with this beach that we have had and that it becomes more than a space for them as well.