Where I'm From
My daughter suggested this exercise. So I'll give it a go . .
I'm from caliche roads, Log Cabin syrup in tin log cabins and a tightly capped jar with black liquid that could tell your fortune.
I am from two-room apartments and large, white birthday cakes served on dresser stools under a water tower. I'm from being very poor and not knowing it.
I am from swept yards and mud pies baked hard in the Texas sun.
I am from listening to "People are Funny" on the radio and sometimes wondering what the studio audience was laughing at. I'm from not talking things out. I'm from tough-as-nails Hazie and married-too-soon Ruthie. And grandmothers Annie and Addie who never met each other.
I'm from people who may never have known who they really were and who might have stayed single if anyone had given them permission.
I'm from being distantly related to Native Americans and closely related to some of the strongest women America ever created.
I am from an old, big Methodist Church with secret passages behind the choir loft and a lovely, modern Presbyterian one with private prayer in the balcony.
I'm from starkly romantic West Texas and a gifted graphic artist who was my father. I'm from wonderful grainy fudge that you press against the roof of your mouth and from "Stuff on the Meat."
I'm from my father coming off drugs (and seeing "a butchered face" on his pillow), the car accident in which an angel caught me and kept me safe and from my brother watching other soldiers shoot a Viet Cong intruder in their compound.
I'm from the time before color photos. I'm from a picture in which the two women holding me had no idea that I would conduct both of their memorial services. I'm from photos of cousins with countless hapless dogs and cats. I'm from photos of cars and toys which are now in museums.
I'm from a time when lots of mistakes were made in raising children and, because of those, I'm from a time of trying hard not to make the same mistakes.
I'm from caliche roads, Log Cabin syrup in tin log cabins and a tightly capped jar with black liquid that could tell your fortune.
I am from two-room apartments and large, white birthday cakes served on dresser stools under a water tower. I'm from being very poor and not knowing it.
I am from swept yards and mud pies baked hard in the Texas sun.
I am from listening to "People are Funny" on the radio and sometimes wondering what the studio audience was laughing at. I'm from not talking things out. I'm from tough-as-nails Hazie and married-too-soon Ruthie. And grandmothers Annie and Addie who never met each other.
I'm from people who may never have known who they really were and who might have stayed single if anyone had given them permission.
I'm from being distantly related to Native Americans and closely related to some of the strongest women America ever created.
I am from an old, big Methodist Church with secret passages behind the choir loft and a lovely, modern Presbyterian one with private prayer in the balcony.
I'm from starkly romantic West Texas and a gifted graphic artist who was my father. I'm from wonderful grainy fudge that you press against the roof of your mouth and from "Stuff on the Meat."
I'm from my father coming off drugs (and seeing "a butchered face" on his pillow), the car accident in which an angel caught me and kept me safe and from my brother watching other soldiers shoot a Viet Cong intruder in their compound.
I'm from the time before color photos. I'm from a picture in which the two women holding me had no idea that I would conduct both of their memorial services. I'm from photos of cousins with countless hapless dogs and cats. I'm from photos of cars and toys which are now in museums.
I'm from a time when lots of mistakes were made in raising children and, because of those, I'm from a time of trying hard not to make the same mistakes.