Where I'm From

I am from a switchboard in the living room, from Maytag wringer washers and lye soap and bluing and starch.

I am from the rolling north Missouri hills sweet with the smell of budding, flowering branches in spring, and fields plowed and ready to plant, from wild strawberries growing along roadside ditches in June and kittens in the barn.

I am from the murky Missouri River that likes to escape its banks, the cottonwood trees alongside it shedding their sticky stuff that is carried for miles and lands on freshly-waxed cars, making men curse. I’m from one-room schoolhouses and priming the pump and an outhouse out back.

I am from stubbornness and hot tempers, from Smith and Lacy and Cook.

I am from the gossiping and the caring.

From “don’t cross your eyes or they’ll freeze like that” and “put on clean underwear in case we’re in a wreck”.

I am from “there’s an all-seeing Eye watching you” and immersion and the King James Bible and a capella singing; I’m from learning on my own that nobody’s all that perfect, and that grace covers sin.

I'm from cornfields and pastures of the midwest, from Ball jars containing green beans and home-made pickles, beets and peaches, peas and corn, lined up on shelves in dank, musty-smelling cellars where you always keep your eyes open for snakes.

From the time my parents waded mud in December to get married after their car got stuck; the baby Aunt Ruby lost to pneumonia; and the great depression, when people got together and played cards and made ice cream for recreation.

I am from pictures and old letters tossed in a five-gallon lard can that reveal what life was like in the late 1930's, when mama's baby boy was still-born and my grandpa died of cancer. I’m from stories about what it was like when Mother was a little girl. I’m from finding out after she was long-gone that my grandfather wasn’t as kind and gentle as I had been led to believe and, for some reason, being disappointed about that.

I'm from knowing that I come from people as good as any, and better than many.





I wish everybody would do this exercise. I'll guarantee you that if you do it, you'll never forget the feeling. For the template, go HERE. I've done it at least three times, and it always comes out different.

I can think of so many friends and relatives that I'd love to have do this thing. Of course, I can't force them.

Where I’m from

I’ve done this exercise several times, but I never get tired of it. It always gives me a good feeling and gets me in touch with my roots. I wish everybody would try doing this. The template can be found HERE, and I guarantee it will turn you into a poet. I dare you to do this! If you Google "Where I'm From", it will take you to many beautiful essays that will take you back in time.

WHERE I'M FROM

I am from cast iron skillets; from Stanley Home products and Church three times a week, (and every single night for two weeks straight, if there was a Gospel meeting).
I am from old two-story houses with a switchboard in the living room and the smell of coffee in the kitchen every morning. I’m from an outhouse out back and a pump right outside the kitchen door that had to be primed before you could get water from it. I’m from getting a drink from a dipper in the bucket in the kitchen, the same dipper everyone drank from.
I am from the Top-crop green beans and wild strawberries growing in a ditch along the road in North Missouri; from the blackberries and black walnuts and morel mushrooms that just grew all by themselves and were there for the picking.
I am from two family reunions every summer and knowing we always pay our bills. From Clara and Everett and Stevens and Allen. I am from the teetotalers and farmers .
From “always wear clean underwear in case we’re in a wreck” and “don’t cross your eyes or they’ll freeze like that.”
I am from Church-of-Christ and a cappella music. I'm from Iowa and Missouri and Pennsylvania; from noodles and fried chicken.
From the time Grandpa Allen hit a horse so hard with his fist that the horse fell to its knees; from the day in December of 1932 that my mom and dad waded through the mud to get married. I’m from babies born to Aunt Ruby and Grandma Stevens that died of pneumonia in their first few days of life. I am from my dad’s mother and his first wife who both died giving birth.
I am from pictures and diaries my mom kept in an old lard can hoping someone would eventually care about them (and now I do); from a music box I played with as a child at Grandma’s house that I have in my possession, and hope to pass it on to the proper person when I’m gone. I’m from cousins who dig into the past to find out where my ancestors come from and then share that information with me.
Because friends come and go, but nobody knows my past like my cousins.