Where I'm From

I promised some literary diversions, so here goes. I found this idea on Flicka's blog vacantuterus. She did a lovely job, and even recruited her dad to participate. If you'd like to give it a try, visit here for a template. I'm hoping my mom will share her version too.


WHERE I'M FROM

I am from cheese and bologna sandwiches, from Hershey Kisses, and 4 gallons of white milk.

I am from the twin house with the musty dictionary always ready in the coat closet, and afghans on the couch. From the black pickup with its own sweet smells. From homework at the kitchen table, and cousins down the street.

I am from the matching flowers in Mrs. Jefferis front yard, and the worn path around the well-house field. From the patient dog and the vegetable garden in my uncle’s back yard.

I am from watches on 21st birthdays, from Dinty Moore Beef Stew and all the furniture painted brown.

I am from the quick-tongued and the quickly pensive or forlorn. From the raucous and the do-whatever-you-need.

From sit still, and stop fighting, and clean your room. From quit reading that book and go outside. From put dinner on at 4:30, and pick up some bread.

I am from incense, candles, stained glass, kneeling and small bells. From processions to the same alter, and celebrations at the same fire hall.

I'm from verdant green hills, mists, and crumbling castles. From poets and minstrels. From pointless bloodshed. From potatoes and ham with boiled cabbage.

From one of the county hospital’s first graduating nurses who met her love at work, and the haberdasher’s widow who reared a strong brood of eight.

I am from the china cabinet that smells of wood shavings and Old English. From the brown leather album with crumbling black pages and white photo corners and tiny greeting cards tumbling out. From the boxes of slides and the collections of poses in the front yard or on the staircase. From the jewelry box with the symbols of their affection for over 50 years.


I'd love to learn about where you are from ...