Today I found myself thinking of the moss green glow of the fish tank light that lit my ways as I padded between the kitchen and the living room at night during childhood. The tank held red and blue neon tetras, elegant angelfish, and a whole host of other species that I can’t recall— only the time I spent with my nose pressed against the glass or a mischievous hand dipped into the water to brush the scales of a emboldened fish.

I remember the nights when my family sat on the couch and watched old episodes of “Zorro” and “The Three Stooges.” I can only recall the soft breeze during summer as the screen door was all that kept us between the world. The ambient heat from the day settled peacefully into the light shadows of the summer night. If you stepped outside with bare feet, you’d be greeted by still-warmed pavement that sent little pulses of pleasure up your legs.

I’d sit on the porch during the rare thunderstorms— captured by the roiling energy that charged the air. I’d watch in wonder as distant strikes of lightning brought the world to a standstill. The thunder followed after like a haggard dog.

I remember standing in a cluttered kitchen— always a book, magazine, or newspaper spread across available surfaces. During the weekend the voice of Garrison Keilor would fill the room. I’d sit around ready to hear the newest tale of “Guy Noir” and the fictionalized version of St. Paul — “A city that knew how to keep its secrets.” The tongue twisters, subtle turn of phrase and looming shadows of a haggard private investigator dug into my bones. The elements of a “beautiful, mysterious woman,” alliteration, and the penchant for being a ham have dominated my own stories— often without a clear recollection of why.

But as Jane Ellen Harrison wrote— “you cannot unroll that snowball which is you: there is no ‘you’ except your life — lived.”

Often we can forget the inspirations that have been planted in our personal gardens of creativity.

I can link the old muscle cars and lifted trucks from the countless “Auto Trader” magazines I’d beg my dad to bring home to my love of heroes with a reckless need for speed. The audio book set up at my family cabin held suspense and thriller stories my tender ears (and heart) were to young to hear. The sense of looming dread has infused itself into both my nightmares and horror stories. I can feel the expansion of time and its warping of reality as I craft the stories that have kept me wide-eyed during many long nights.

I’d pester people for their weird, unexplainable stories during my childhood. The late night “Coast to Coast” didn’t help with my bursting enthusiasm for explanations of the seldom believed. I’ve grown to maintain the enthusiasm, but it’s tempered by a skepticism that both drives for proof and recoils at the thought/ terror of finding it.

I think of the plastic Roman Legionnaire armor and shining swords I’d wear as I quested through the three lot garden and the front sidewalk. I even buried a broken sword, only to rediscover it years later in the forgotten space between the garage and the neighbors house. A pine hung overhead— littering the ground with sharp needles and gobs of sap. I knelt in the dirt and held up the forgotten sword— feeling a faint sense of change in the way childhood moved. I buried it again and haven’t touched it since.

If five year old me talked to myself today— I can think of three questions he’d ask. “Got any food?” would be the first out of the gate. I’m nothing if not pragmatic about making sure mealtimes (or snacks) are to be had. “Got any good stories?” Far too many to count, but not enough to stop searching for more. “Did you find your robin?” Not yet, but all in due time.

At times the memory of childhood can seem distant in the way that stars do. Vast and unreachable— but visible and inspiring (in many ways). It’s through slow entreaties and unexpected emergence that we find ourselves eye to eye with people we have been. They’re still there within us— wondering what we’ll do next. Just as we ourselves will ask the coming versions what they plan to do.

I hope to find myself once more wandering through a garden— eyes wide at the magic that transcends the mundane as an adventure once more offers it hand.