From

My first introduction to this writing exercise was at The Happy Husband. I’ve thought about doing it many times. Heather, Queen of the Laundry Pile, picked up on it at another blog, Owlhaven. I loved their renditions, so I thought I’d give it a shot too. If you’d like to try your own, I’d suggest this template because it seems to be the “original”. I sorta followed it. One place I am not from is coloring in the lines. It was helpful, though.

Where I’m From

I am from fireworks, KoolAid mustaches and BandAid knees, freckled noses and blue-green eyes. I am from a land of colors, made brighter by thin air. I am from cottonwood trees guiding rivers and elm tree seeds caught in stringy windblown hair. I am from pine’s snappy sap, red cedar desert dirt. I am from the swan on the Grand Mesa.

I am from the steep—the driveway, the mountains surrounding our valley, the climb. I am from the cradled, surrounded by tough land and strong people, so strong they are gentle. I am from brave pioneers who left comfort and the familiar to carve the home out of the harsh. I am from Alice and Willard, Allan and Mary, my mom and my dad.

I am from German potato salad and perfect sugar cookies with almond-spiked frosting. I am from pop on Friday nights and Happy Days on Tuesday nights. I am from a yellow bicycle and desert hills screaming to scream down. I am from sore arms. I am from rainbow trout lakes and sleeping bags and hamburgers cooked outside. I am from homemade dill pickles tart, sharp, sour, and cold.

I am from “Little Visits with God” read nightly by mom. I am from her flowered nightgown and from wondering how she was blonde and I was not. I am from my dad’s oily garage and his wild childhood stories and his humor. I am from Catholic and Protestant, devout and not so devout, prayers of the sincere, prayers of habit.

I am from a major city and a minor town. I am from ballet tights and Mary Jane shoes and dirty bare feet. I am from allowance money spent on paperback books. I am from the thin brown paper bags I brought them home inside. I am from Rock the Casbah on my garage sale stereo and from “turn it down!”

I am from stories told from La-Z-Boy recliners after Thanksgiving feasts. I am from the pictures taken at the feasts and put into albums under clear plastic. I am from large collars and polyester and itching. I am from the car trips home, over the mountains, through the desert, and my parent’s speeding tickets. I am from fake-sleeping and getting carried into the house by parents who knew, but did it anyway.