What’s your cure for being blue? Today, I’m taking
a minute (OK – it was two hours) to look back on where I’m from. There’s a challenge for you at the end – keep reading!
September has kicked my a$$! Lots of disappointments, frustrations, and pain (an emergency tooth extraction being just one highlight). I cannot wait for September 2012 to pass. So, given my “positive” attitude, I decided it was time to take stock and remember all the blessings I have, and try being thankful instead of blue.
A few weeks ago the fabulous Jenny Hansen at More Cowbell posted How Do You Describe “Where You’re From” and it’s inspired me. Be sure to check out her post too.
Where I’m From
I am from family dinners at the table each night where sarcasm was humor, from Coca-Cola and drive-in movie theatres in daddy’s pick-up truck, salt & vinegar potato chips that left your mouth numb, and a zoo-worthy collection of pets including Booger the Cockatiel.
I am from the old brick house dated 1890 with the ancient oak that watched over half the street built, from star-filled nights where the crickets kept you up at night, and a nose buried in the thick slightly-matted dark fur of my only friend and favorite dog who followed me down any path, protected me from strays and coyotes, and always smelled a bit like popcorn.
I am from maple trees overhanging quiet streets that still look exactly the same after twenty years, abandoned train tracks, and jumping into piles of brittle colored leaves that crackled and crunched and got stuck in your hair when you jumped in them, from where the gravel crunched under your shoes and it was so quiet you could hear yourself think.
I am from Christmas at the farm with turkey a little too dry, stuffing that stuck to the roof of your mouth and Christmas pudding that took two days to make, from singing out loud to the radio even if you got the words wrong, from Charlie who said the only church he’d ever attend was a round one – so the Devil couldn’t corner him, from Doris and the smell of her fresh baked bread that filled the farmhouse with memories and had the patience to listen to a lonely teen every time she called, and Anne who knew the words and could pick out the tune on a guitar to every country song ever played on the radio.
I am from stubborn til it’s stupid and loyalty that’s thicker than blood even when it shouldn’t be. I’m from ‘that’ll put hair on your chest’ and be home when the streetlights come on, never ask a boy out, and always leave with the guy you came with. I am from Tommy Hunter every Sunday night and Patsy Cline on the record player, and dancing to the fiddle and guitar. I’m from pony-tails, go hard or go home, and playin with the boys.
I am from Bibles tucked away in closets, from saying Grace at meal times and bedtime prayers, and never cussing in front of Grandma.
I’m from farmers who valued growing enough food for your family and anyone else who came to the door willing to work for a meal, from day-in-day-out hard work and honest sweat, where your animals got fed before you did, from potatoes and corn on the cob and homemade pudding with milk straight from the cow or goat.
I’m from a crazy grandfather who sold us a half-wild sheep for a penny and pocket lint (whatever happened to that sheep?), from lawn darts and wood-burning kits and trucks without seatbelts, from a band-aid wrapped so tight you felt your heart beat at the tip of your finger but you never said a word to the always-practical grandfather who tended a wound he couldn’t see.
I’m from faded yellow scrapbooks of old report cards and school photos, from the boxes of school books in the attic no one could throw away, from one-day-wonder vacations where you took enough photos so it looked like you’d been gone a week, Sunday drives for local creamery ice cream that always tasted better than the store-bought kind but never as good as Grandma’s hand-churned vanilla, and evenings alone with a cat kneading my thighs and the clock clicking each minute to remind me I had school the next day as I turned another page.
I’m from great Canadian authors from Margaret Goes To The Farm and Bookie, to Farley Mowatt’s Lost in the Barrens, W.O. Mitchell, Stephen Leacock, Michael Ondaatje, Timothy Findley, Margaret Laurence, Lawrence Hill, Mordecai Richler, and Margaret Atwood. I am from every story ever written about The Black Stallion, and the pony express.
I’m the adult who held back her tears until she was alone, wondering who she would talk to now that her grandmother was gone, and after almost thirteen years the questions have piled up so high she wouldn’t know where to start except with a hug and to say, “I’ve missed you.”
I wonder how my daughters will describe where they’re from? Where are you from?
Clearly Kristal took up my challenge. Read where she’s from here. Love it!
Here’s my challenge – find the template for this post here at the bottom of Sharla Lovelace’s blog and create your own Where I’m From post. Leave the link in the comments, and I’ll edit the post to include links to everyone who took up the challenge.
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