The followup post is worth reading as well, I think. There were people who responded about their own childhoods, which made me stop and think about my own and where it came from. You can read it here.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
I am from
I am from The Saturday Evening Post, from Grapenuts and the Postwar Baby Boom.
I am from Maplewood Street, Elm trees, sagebrush, the Portneuf River, hot, dry summers and bitter cold winters.
I am from the desert, the mountains, the sky. I am from the sound of trains in the night.
I am from singing in the car and laughing til we peed our pants, from Grandpa Ern ("you be Frank and I'll be Ernest") and Shelton earlobes and Howard hair.
I am from handmade is better than store bought.
From "never tolerate intolerance" and "life is grand if you don't weaken."
I am from the little Methodist church and the Carnegie Library and the Woolworth and the Okay Market.
I'm from a homestead in Colorado, a farm in Montana, the foot of the mountains in Idaho, from baked potatoes and cheese enchiladas.
From Jimmy who saw Betty for the first time and said, "There's the girl I'm going to marry" and Betty who thought she "might die" if she didn't marry him; and black and white TV and a succession of Ford Station wagons.
I am from Dad's darkroom and family photos and silver dollars. From fresh trout and starry nights, the smell of woodsmoke and wool blankets; the love of books and babies and card games and road trips and a good story.
I am from love that was demonstrated daily but never talked about. I am from family