Where I'm From

Where we are from has EVERYTHING to do with who we are, what we value, and what we seek throughout our lives.  Writing about my memories of my developing literacy in another SOL entry, I decided to write my own version of a "Where I'm From" poem, like that by George Ella Lyon.  It's definitely a "work in progress" in that it feels like it's not finished or polished... but here it is--so far.


(based on the poem by George Ella Lyon)


I am from electric fences
and fans stirring the curtains in farmhouse windows,
from Mercurochrome for scraped knees,
Burger Dairy ice cream, frozen cokes, and K-Mart blue light specials.


I am from the rich, dark soil of Indiana
endless battles with weeds, gardening
to grow vegetables to sustain our family
and finding Indians’ arrowheads after
the fields were plowed
gathering rocks of all sizes from the land
for one penny each.

I’m from popsicles, dandelion greens, sun-ripened tomatoes,
and homemade chicken salad chopped in a new-fangled blender;
from the big maple tree in the side yard with strong, beckoning arms
cradling, providing solitude or a quiet place to read,
shading us when we played Barbies on a quilt under its branches.


I’m from Junes of tasting the red-orange bitter-sweetness of cherries
from delicate, gnarled ancient trees on “Sissy’s Dead Hill,”
dreaming about Kentucky vacations
with cousins, grandparents, and endless aunts and uncles
that came soon after.

I’m from fresh cow’s milk and blonde hair
from the Wiremans, Whitakers, and Shepherds
Salt- of- the- Earth,
Hardworking, intelligent, stubborn people
who valued education but didn’t always have it.
From “Bloody Bones” and “Come stand right here and hush, Sissy!”
From time-outs when Walter Cronkite was on in black and white,
learning about Vietnam and Watergate
and worrying about politics by the age of 8.

I’m from the pink Baptist church on a country road
with its children’s classes taught by
grouchy -God-fearing- gray-haired-church ladies-with-cat-eyed-glasses,
with interesting brochures in the back of the sanctuary,
picturing people from less fortunate lands 
and cookies with Kool-Aid for sustenance
as we sought God.

From a mother with a lavender coat and a pink leather wallet
Who smelled like Avon’s “Charisma”
And a father who gave me quarters,
Fondly called my “weekend money”
which aided my book collecting
from Key Pharmacy, Goodwill on Bluffton Road, and
St. Vincent dePaul’s on Calhoun Street in the city
or my pleasure of writing on thick, multi-colored pads of paper
or gently correcting mistakes
with triangular erasers with wooden Chinese heads
purchased at G.C. Murphy’s Five and Ten.

I’m from Appalachia, tobacco farms, pinto beans
fried chicken for breakfast,
and Banner sausage from a can--
a spicy, chunky pinkish-brown gravy that oozed over buttermilk biscuits
From the legend of my dad’s car accident,
sideswiped by a drunk--who lost an arm,
From never sticking our own body parts out of a vehicle.


I’m from a mother who tells tales about delivering mail with her mother--
part Indian, maybe Cherokee--
in a precarious Jeep careening around  “branches” of rivers,
curvy roads, and toppling into hollers.
Steep, tree-laden, rocky-edged hills
one with a family cemetery on top
and mules and cowbells jangling down the mountainsides
heading in for the night
heavy fog and humidity settling
while the  “Blue Moon of Kentucky” kept on shining.

I am from red raspberry bushes in the fence rows,
a small woods with a fresh water spring,
and smiling for the camera with messy hair and
red sunglasses with the lenses popped out.
I’m from loving farm dogs like family members
snuggling baby bunnies,
and reading on blankets spread out in a summer meadow.


I’m from baling hay in the scorching sun,
Carrying jars of ice water to my red-skinned father
With only his cowboy hat to keep him cool.
From looking forward to going to town,
especially to the basements of Harvey’s and G.C. Murphy’s
where we all knew the best toys in the world could be found.

I’m from clotheslines,
a big red barn and a tin shed with tractors,
antiques tossed aside,
sweet hay filled with clover and alfalfa,
cows and an old barn cat named “Puss,”
and riding a friendly pony, Nellie, around the pasture
like a real cowgirl donning a red felt cowboy hat,
cap guns, and even spurs (only for jingling, never for prodding)...

I’m from riding bikes around a circle drive
and swooshing down our country road to the old churchyard
with scary farm dogs chasing us
from fresh Christmas trees from Frank’s  or a local nursery
always personally selected by “Daddy and me,”
and Shiny Brite ornaments, paper angels,
a cardboard fireplace, with a winking Santa door panel
and Christmas carols on records
and played on a Magnus chord organ or a portable record player
all year round.


I’m from dancing to records or AM radio
 on a battery-powered player
in the shade of the maple trees.
Using the front porch as a schoolhouse,
my toy upright piano with a real maple cabinet
and old schoolbooks, like MAKING MUSIC YOUR OWN,
and siblings as the teacher and fellow students.

I’m from hard work
and hide-and-seek
on rolling farm land,
 “getting outside to play” with brothers and sisters,
in a big yard covered with flowers, lilac and snowball bushes,
and from being sheltering trees that touched the sky,
 used for bases when we played softball.

and it’s all still there, beckoning, like an old friend
wondering why I don't visit more often.