Stargazing in SpringdaleIllustration by Harry Tennant Where I grew up in Springdale, Arkansas, there were no fences around houses, either in front or back. Neighbors’ yards blended together, and when I walked outside, it was not unusual to see a dog or dogs I didn’t know, as well as a dog or two that I did. I would put out milk and water in my mother’s pots and sit and watch the dogs drink. I was a little feral. I had a very hot temper. I screamed a lot. I was rabidly competitive. I liked to eat raw eggs and carrots. I was outside every daylight hour during the summers. I spoke in a heavy Southern accent, because I’d learned to talk in Georgia. I had very strong opinions about syllables; for instance, I was sure my sister’s name was pronounced not Kim but Kee-uhm. We didn’t have garbage collection. Instead, townspeople burned their weekly garbage in an incinerator in their backyards. Each Friday evening, my family would empty our garbage into the incinerator, then throw in newspapers to get the fire started. I would beg my parents to let me be the one to strike the match that lit the newspaper and got the fire going. We used Japanese paddle fans to blow wind on the fire until it was roaring. I remember the heat on my face, the ashes floating above us in the night, and the huge moths flitting around the flames. I remember many days of being surrounded by bees and butterflies, and of playing with and loving Queenie, a neighbor’s German shepherd. Her owner’s name was Howard. He had no front teeth—that is, he had them, but he took them out whenever I asked. On summer nights when our father was at work, Mom, my siblings, and I would sit or lie on quilts in the backyard viewing the constellations. Try as I might, I did not see the giant bear where the Big Dipper was. My mother said the ancient Greeks had seen this bear as clearly as if there was an actual giant bear in the sky. My older sister today has no feelings for or memories about Springdale. We were one of three Japanese American families, and my sister later said that we were second-class citizens. Dad had only a fourth-grade education, and I think what drove him to work as hard as he did was the dream that his kids would someday go to college, a lofty dream for a man who had begun working in the produce fields of Southern California when he was nine. Living in a small town, I knew all that I yearned for was out of reach now, but that it was out there. And at the same time, there I was, safe with my family in the backyard, surrounded by moths and stars and flames. Everything I yearned for was somewhere else; everything I loved was right there, in Springdale. • • • Cynthia Kadohata is the author of more than a dozen children’s books, including the Newbery Medal–winning book Kira-Kira and the National Book Award winner The Thing About Luck. Born in Chicago, she spent her childhood in Georgia, Arkansas, Illinois, and California. Today, she lives in Southern California with two humans, two Dobermans, and a surprising number of cats she somehow ended up with. This article appears in the Fall 2025 issue of Southbound. The post A childhood remembered through backyards and starlight appeared first on Atlanta Magazine. ...read more read less