born marguerite johnson in st. louis, she was sent to stamps to live with her grandmother and hadn't returned for years. let's go back together, i said. she wouldn't have it. too many demons, she said. a dozen years later, for a series on "creativity," and searching for what it is in a person that touches the strings of that mysterious instrument, i called maya and said, "let's go home. i want to meet those ghosts." this time she said yes. here, as a simple act of remembrance, is a brief excerpt of that film, produced with my long-time colleague, david grubin. >> in my memory, stamps is a place of light, shadow, sounds, and entrancing odors. the earth smell was pungent, spiced with the odor of cattle manure, the yellowish acid of the ponds and rivers, the deep pots of greens and beans cooking for hours with smoked or cured pork. flowers added their heavy aroma. and above all, the atmosphere was pressed down with the smell of old fears, and hates, and guilt." i am a writer and stamps must remain for me in that nebul