I'm from

There is a contest at Chrysalis blog for this poem and it ends tonight. She has the template and all you do is fill in your own memories. I actually wrote this a year or so ago but I want to take part in the contest, so I'm posting it again.

(By the way, this is my second post for today. Two in one day! So don't miss the other one.)

Where I'm From

I am from cigarette scented pickups. From black and white TV and

Pyrex bowls – yellow for the popcorn and red for the Jell-o.

I am from the squeaky, the dusty, and paneled.

From three bedrooms, green carpet, and doors that open

by themselves.

From room to roam and dirt and trees.

I am from swinging in a tire,

playing Wonder Woman

and Barbies.

Reading in the sun, drawing and

listening to John Denver.

Cowboys and Indians and

hide-and-seek in the dark.

From piano lessons,

libraries,

and Christian school.

I am from cherry trees, grapes vines and rhubarb.

From pony hair, cat hair and chicken feed.

Gardens and worms and wild asparagas.

I am from reunions, Rosehips, and

big feet.

From Vera and Leo, Delmas and Beryl. Two girls and four girls and one boy.

The end of the line.

I am from the teasing and the stoic. I am from praying and bickering

and loving.

From I’ll give you something to cry about and

if your friends wanted to jump off a cliff…

I am from Jesus saves and lots of rules.

From Sunday morning,

Sunday night,

Wednesday night.

From loving the least of these and everlasting life.

I’m from Pueblo and the Arkansas Valley,

from the dust bowl and a soddy.

From ranches, farms, and railroads.

From Macaroni and cheese and Chicken and dumplings,

bread without salt and canned apples.

Frozen Kool-aid, Banquet chicken and Cheerios.

From the illegitimate son of a sailor, The War of 1812,

and an orphan raised by natives.

A bronc - bustin', homesteading grandma.

A migrant worker grandpa. A WWI vet who just missed hitting the frontlines

and survived the epidemic.

I am from heart attacks, brain cancer, and aneurisms.

From strokes and ninety-five years.

I am from old scrapbooks, grandma’s stored-away boxes,

from funeral receipts, birth bills and marriage licenses stuffed

in a bag.

And

memories that need to be mined before it’s too late.