Monday, April 18, 2011

Where I’m from . . .

I am from fabric; from Singer, Gingher, Coats and Clark.

I am from homemade bread and milk fresh from the cow; from butter paddled and rinsed from the cream and vegetables dirty from the garden.

I am from the pines and the birches; from barbed-wire pastures and deep cedar glades.

I am from the little house with 40 acres on the north bench.
I am from books read aloud and six people sharing a single bathroom.

I am from Zilch and jigsaw puzzles; from Nancy and Wayne; from grandparents and cousins all living in one another’s hip pocket.

I am from Cattail Canyon and Salamander Swamp; from the big rock and blue-tailed lizards.

I am from stubbornness and perfection.

I’m from drinking coffee will make your feet black and Run Sheep Run.

I am from quiet. I am from dark shadows and bright lights.

I'm from Idaho and Germany, meat and potatoes.

I am from the muddy, rocky bottom of the Moyie River watching false teeth and glasses floating away. I am from branding day at Hinthorns’ and swimming on the point. I am from camping on the west side and huckleberries on the east.
I am from the box in the top of the closet and the reels on the shelf; from the priceless relics and memories of the past.

3 comments:

Odie Langley said...

Wonderful post Janie.

Maggie Bieritz said...

I love that. But you forgot one important line: "I am from Canada."

:)

I love you.

Doozyanner said...

Ahhh, beautiful! This reminds me of a writing workshop I once took. We adults wrote several types of stories that we were then to take home and have our students write. One of the assignments started exactly the same way. Volunteers were asked to read their stories aloud. After listening to lovely stories of "I come from warm tortillas and pozole," I was a little intimidated to share, "I come from frozen white bread leaning up against the soup pot to thaw." Thank you for writing this. I love it.