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Where I’m From

I am from pine, molasses, and pure stubborn will.  I’m from no ma’ams, howdy y’alls, and yes pleases.  I am from cast iron, fat back, and collard greens.

I am from cornbread.

I am from combines, chicken coops, and cow licks.  From Rock rivers, gravel plants, and petunia festivals.  I am from sing-alongs, sibling rivalries, and Snickers salads.

I am from sweet shrub in hollers on the sides of weary mountains.  From dirt roads, one room school houses, and log cabins.  From the hard womb of a black walnut hull.

I am from blue jeans hidden under hand-me-down dresses.  I am from starched dress whites.  I’m from undulating hills and flat plains.  From reckons and from warshes.  I am from daffodil bouquets displayed in Campbell Soup cans.

I am from milkweed, and moonshine.  From stubborn crawdads clenched on freezing toes in babbling creeks.  From copperheads hiding in cords of wood.

I’m from scuppernong vines, fig trees, and flowered bonnets worn on wide, wooden porches.  I am from iced tea served in mason jars that held fireflies the previous evening.

I am from laughter.  I am from necessity.

I am from gratitude.


I read this post the other day from Karen over at her blog, Muttering.  (I get around, you know.)  Apparently it’s a writing exercise with a template and everything.  Of course I didn’t really bother to read that part.  I just thought it was so fun and lovely that I started doodling thoughts and that mess up there happened.  So, as per usual, I didn’t really play by the rules.  But it was still fun.  Go try it.  And then send me yours via whatever means is most comfortable for you – comments, blog posts, email – because I’d really like to know more about you.  And no, I don’t say that to all the blogosphere.  Unless they’re planning on picking up the bar tab.  I mean, a girl’s gotta do…

52 comments to Where I’m From

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