Slice of Life #16: 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.

Slice of Life #16:  Where I’m From 

(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, 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 watching Walter Cronkite and

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-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

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.