Family: June 2006 Archives

I am from wooden spoons and male cooks, from Spam, potatos and dumplings.

I am from the house unseen from the road, a riot of hued and scented surprise once you got up that god-awful hill.

I am from the prairie rose beside the dry dirt drive, the dogwood trees whose berries were ammunition against my brother.

I am from patriotism and pot lucks, from Norman and Aunt Imy who played softball better than anyone and Carol who... well, never mind.

I am from bull-headedness and bickering amongst family but closing ranks against outsiders.

From "don't do as I do; do as I TOLD you to do" and staying away from the closet at the head of the stairs because there was a BEAR in
there. (There was also Christmas presents in there, but I didn't know that then.)

I am from the pow'r in the blood on an old rugged cross. Easter Sunrise Services at a little white church in the vale.

I'm from Coffeyville, Kansas and Columbus, Indiana; with coffee in heavy, white, military mugs that made it taste that much better.
From being danced by my Aunt Becky when I was a baby and having my babies danced by my Aunt Becky now.

I'm from Love going out the window as Love comes in the door and from my grandmother singing "Will the Circle Be Unbroken" when she'd done more than anyone to break it. And I come from the amazement of forgiving that makes Family.

I am from cigar boxes of ladies' hankies and school pictures tucked in every crevice; albums falling apart from often handling and brief
glimpses of WWII medals.

I am from Family. Which is why I clutch one of the heirloom hankies while looking through photo boxes with my children. And why I need to
buy a replacement album or two already.

What's good for the gander is good for the goose - the "Where I'm From" meme:

I am from iron skillets, from BisQuick , Mrs. Butterworth's and boysenberry jam sent from northern Minnesota.

I am from the forest-hidden house on one of the flaming Autumn hills of Southern Indiana.

I am from the heavy, bee-laden pear tree, the evening honeysuckle scent and whippoorwill call.

I am from bluegrass music and large noses, from Abe and Elma and my father's cousin Dell, the "black sheep" who sent the jam from Minnesota and intrigued me so as a child.

I am from those who practiced Scottish thrift, even though they were Welsh and knew the power and comfort of hymns.

From cutting my own switch and knowing my shoes would feel strange in September because I hadn't worn them all Summer.

I am from an instrumental Church of Christ born of a splinter of a split. A true Church in the Wildwood with Old-Fashioned Day in the Fall and church camp every Summer.

I'm from Somerset, Kentucky, and Columbus, Indiana, beef and noodles with shellie beans and peach cobbler.

From my Uncle Steven, who got a cramp and drowned while teaching his girlfriend to swim, my great-uncle Elden, for whom my father was named, dying when his ship was bombed at Pearl Harbor. And I am from my mother, singing "How Great Thou Art" as she hung clean damp sheets on a long clothesline in the fragrant air.

I am from photo albums, one per child, from wall collages updated as children grow or babies are born, and from buffets and sofa tables made precious by their coverage of frames of every sort filled with pictures of every sort.

I am from Family. They have taught me to be Family. So my children are from a collage above my desk and from a precious mantle and from.....