My Astoria is a vast mental cache of images, sounds, smells, emotion and overall feeling. Flocks of white clad cannery workers crossing Marine Drive at quitting time as we waited to pick mom up from work, the view of the river from the top of 8th street as I walked to school at Central Elementary. The mournful lowing of foghorns on the river, and the sounds from John Warren Field on an autumnal Friday night. Though I live several hundred miles away these days, my heart holds these things and so many more. Astoria remains home to my soul.