I am from family dinners of meat and boiled potatoes at the table each night, from Coca-Cola and road-trips for ice cream and chip truck fish and chips (french fries), salt & vinegar potato chips that leave your mouth numb, soccer games with the boys, and always had two or three pets.
I am from farms and the old brick house dated 1890 with the ancient oak my dad cut down, from star-filled nights and rain on a metal roof, from imaginary adventures with my only friend, Scottie, who followed me down any path, protected me from strays and coyotes, and when I buried my nose in his fur it somehow always smelled like popcorn.
I am from maple trees overhanging quiet streets, abandoned train tracks, 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, from Grandpa playing the fiddle and don’t talk during Tommy Hunter, from Grandma and her fresh baked bread and knitted slippers — who always had the patience to listen to a lonely teen.
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 hit a lady – but if she hits you first she ain’t no lady, and always leave with the guy you came with. I’m from pony-tails, go hard or go home, and playin’ with the boys.
I’m from farmers who grew enough for their family and the stranger who came looking to work for food, 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.
I’m from United Empire Loyalists, Irish immigrants, and British Home Children who homesteaded and survived — orphans cast out and forced to start over. I’m from faded yellow scrapbooks of old report cards, from one-day-wonder vacations where you took enough photos so it looked like you’d been gone a week, Sunday drives, and staying up too late because I had to know how the story ended.
I’m the adult who held back her tears until she was home again, wondering who she would talk to with her grandmother gone, and now the questions have piled up so high she wouldn’t know where to start except with a kiss on the cheek. “I’ve missed you.”
Where are you from?
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. Write your own in the comments, or post it on your blog and leave the link.