The Saturday Journal: Where I'm From

I was first introduced to the poem Where I’m From written by writer and teacher, George Ella Lyon (http://www.georgeellalyon.com) at a writing conference several years ago. Her poem, Where I'm From has been used in classrooms with the young, as well as the old.  It’s a writing exercise–fill-in the blank. A challenge–a reflection–a look back. And it’s a gentle reminder of our past–our story and our blessings.

I hope you will be inspired to write your own. 

Where I’m From

by Tathel Miller 

I’m from a dusty dirt road sprinkled in black oil in hot summer months

I’m from spider bikes and long summer days of play and mischief

I’m from a baseball with broken seams, an open field playing with the neighborhood kids and my Daddy–I'm from infield bases made of trees and stumps and bushes

I’m from school bus rides–the biggest bus–old snub nose number 34.

I’m from clotheslines and rows of green beans, tasseled corn and cucumbers, yellow squash and mounds of white and red potatoes

I’m from a Grandmother who dipped Tube Rose from a little green tin can and later, a glass jar

I’m from a Grandmother, I never met–but I love her–just the same.

I’m from a little house at the bottom of the hill on a quiet side road in Rock Creek. 

I’m from hard working farmers–a grandpa who died way too soon and a granny’s beautiful laugh.  

I’m from furniture factory workers–one, a sewer and cutter of cloth–a gifted seamstress and quilter. The other–in maintenance–an electrician–he could design machinery–draw blueprints–fix anything. 

I’m from clothes stitched and darned by hand–calico and cotton and denim–hand-me-down clothes--fluffy pink crinoline Easter dresses–lace socks–shiny black and white patent leather shoes–red Converse high tops when they weren’t cool, and black and white saddle oxfords. 

I’m from the big and tall hair generations–as Dolly Parton said, “Jack it up to Jesus.” 

I’m from a family with more cousins and aunts and uncles that most can count

I’m from a little country church–I’ll Fly Away–When the Roll is Called Up Yonder and The Old Rugged Cross and worn covers of King James.

I’m from cornbread and milk

I’m from a cast iron skillet–fried chicken smothered in flour, salt, pepper, and Crisco

I'm from homemade ice cream and pound cakes, apple pies, meatloaf, mashed potatoes, deviled eggs, blackberry and chicken dumplings, and biscuits that would melt in your mouth. 

I’m from a switch tree and sometimes a fly swat, and on the special occasions–a belt. 

I’m from words like “worn slap out”, “don’t tell stories”, “I’ll tell you what”  and occasionally–words that weren’t in the Bible–not harsh, or the hard core bad words–but still, not in the Holy Book. 

I’m from sleeping under open windows and curtains flying high from a cool spring breeze

I’m from lightning bugs in Ball jars sealed with lids poked full of air holes and five-foot black snakes hid in the shadows under gigantic pumpkin leaves

I’m from dirt clod fights and cuts and bruises and blood-stained knees and elbows

I’m from wealth–not silver and gold–nor dollars or cents–

I'm from riches only a heart can hold

I'm from Abraham, Isaac, Jacob

I'm from Rahab, Ruth, Mary

I’m from forgiveness and mercy

I'm from love

Windows and mirrors

We need them both–

Katherine Erskine 

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A humble and heartfelt thank you for reading The Saturday Journal.

My prayer is to share The Saturday Journal every Saturday or at least bi-weekly--

 and the stories shared here in this space will bless you in some small way.

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All photos @copyright Tathel Miller, unless otherwise credited to another photographer.