Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • When I was a child, I was fascinated by the big electricity pylons in the valley below my grandmother's home. I had seen them elsewhere in the countryside too, and somehow I began to believe that no matter where I was in the country, if I followed them I would find my way to Grandma's place.

    In a world filled with travel, moving, new schools and languages, the summers spent at my grandmother's place were my one constant. It was a poor little farmstead, most of which had fallen victim to forced collectivization in Communist times. My grandmother had been a widow since the age of 28 and had struggled to farm and keep animals all by herself, while raising three, then two children. Even though the piglets terrified me when I was three, the cow and sheep until I was about five, while a flock of angry geese will scare me even now, I loved those timeless summer months.

    My grandmother died nearly ten years ago and her plot of land has fallen into disarray, but seeing these electricity pylons (even when I am in another country) still thrills me and makes me believe I can find my way home.
    • Share

    Connected stories:

About

Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.