I am from cake pans and cookie sheets, the old dutch oven, scarred with burn marks on the outside yet spotless on the inside, from Frank’s canned sauerkraut and Bakalar’s hot dogs.
I am from the long, winding road that cuts through the bluffs full of green trees and stony outcroppings. I am from the century-old farm house across from a ridge full of pine trees planted by my own parents’ hands.
I am from the wild sumac, peony and lilac bushes, colorful and fragrant and full of flying ants that ignore protests from humans and fly into eyes, nose and ears. I’m from blackberry brambles, full of fruit ready to be picked in July and made into topping for vanilla ice cream.
I am from large and happy families with so many cousins, aunts, and uncles I easily get lost in the confusion of family reunions, from strong and stubborn German and Norwegians who carved out an existence here through the sweat of their brows and the work of their own hands
I am from those who are too easily offended and too proud to ask for help when their own backs are up against a wall.
From coming into the world as a surprise and “you should do as you’re told”.
I am from church every Sunday whether you feel like it or not, from that ol’ time religion, because it’s good enough for everyone.
I am from the north, the city next to the muddy river, from fiords and Scandinavia, from angel food cake and chocolate chip cookies.
I am from the stolen kiss taken while asleep, from walking miles everyday to see that special someone, and from love letters written from a far-away land during a world war.
I am from the cedar chest, from an old recording of two year olds singing songs and laughing with their parents. From albums stuffed and overflowing with pictures of times long ago, from newspaper clippings pasted into scrapbooks and treasures too valuable for a price.
I found this over at
Cynthia's. What a great writing exercise!
