I’m from rural farm country and cute little Amish kids with bowl-cuts and bonnets, manners and kindness. I’m from home-grown gardens and Ball canning jars. I’m from pastures of hay and landscape upon landscape of old, living barns.
I’m from the little, yellow farmhouse nestled in the scent of summer lilacs.
I’m from Hibiscus the size of your head, Lamb’s Ears and Lily Of The Valley. From Hosta-lined sidewalks and all the fuzzywuzzyworms you can catch.
I’m from The Big Christmas with Good Grandparents, from Margaret Caroline and Betty Jo, from Paschke and Cameron, from Saad and from Gunter.
I’m from wicked intelligence and sun-kissed work ethic.
From barn rafters and cow tongues and hay bales and shit forks. From boats and beaches and garage bands and Tarheels.
I’m from the music of Lutheran, the values of Presbyterian, and the individual spirit of Jesus.
I’m from Lee and from Mercer, from the dot on the map and the blink-and-you-miss-it, from small and from smaller, both familiar and endearing.
I’m from more raisins than two scoops could ever be, from spiked apple cider and from no-bake and oatmeal chocolate chip. I’m from “don’t tread too heavily – the bread will fall” and from “I forgot the fork. They’ll be peanut butter balls.”
From the equestrian lover and computer geek, from the teacher and the dean, from the entrepreneur and the housewife. From the rich and the poor, the sickness and the health, the here and the hereafter.
I am from oil paintings on canvas, Baby Grand pianos, a single trip to Disney World and a ’68 Camaro. I’m from a hiding spot on the roof above the stairwell and the spotlight shining down on the stage. I’m from a little white dress with unicorns dancing and a butterfly t-shirt, four sizes too big. I’m from love and from laughter, from tears and from pain. All of these things, I’d do over again.
This post is inspired.