Is it strange to feel nostalgic for times before I was even alive?
A good chunk of my childhood was spent pretending to be a pioneer — I had the bonnets, the buttoned dresses and pinafores and bloomers and lace-up boots. I’d spend weekend afternoons sitting behind a well-worn wooden desk, chalk and dust hanging in the air of the one-room schoolhouse. I’d lead groups in reciting “The Village Blacksmith;” I can make a doll out of yarn or corn husks.
Watching “True Grit” (I’ll admit, I haven’t read the book), I felt gripped by this strange longing to go back to something that seemed familiar — to this time I’d never really been. Like déjà vu for the soul. It’s strange to have memories that make you feel like your own ghost.
It made me think of this song by Monsters of Folk: