I am from pony tails, bare feet and lightning bug jars. From Kool-Aid and midnight picnics during meteor showers.
I am from the four room house with a jolly blue bunny wearing a pink bow painted on the wall of the dining room that was made into my bedroom. I am from a tattered doll suitcase hidden under the bed, stuffed with toys to be forgotten and rediscovered again. From chalkboard comic strip drawings narrated through giggles by flashlight after dark.
I am from the Butternut tree, the yellow-green catkins and downy leaves. From daisychain necklaces and dandelion bouquets. I am from berry picking walks along railroad tracks and water from a natural spring.
I am from Sunday afternoons at Grandma’s house and homemade clothes. From a pastor, laborers and military men. I am from storytellers and dreamers.
From “I love you” and “Do unto others as you would have others do unto you.”
I am from Sunday School, The Lord’s Prayer and “The Old Rugged Cross.” I’m from a riverside town in Pennsylvania and from Irish and Germans. From noodles made from scratch, fresh vegetables from our garden and my father’s famous “dodgers.”
From the fiery spirit of my red-haired grandmother who chased after a teacher with a chair for punching her son, from the stubbornness and the determination of the grandfather who refused to stop eating his oatmeal even when he was told that bugs had gotten into it.
I am from the photo albums I looked through on my great-grandmother’s lap with pages that crackled with every turn, and silent 8mm films of Thanksgiving and Christmas. From patchwork quilts, recipes scrawled on brittle paper and from delicate jewelry – worth millions in memories, but nothing in dollars – tucked carefully in a worn brown box and deep within my heart.
* Submitted to the writing contest sponsored by Owlhaven. Visit her to learn more.