Fellow blogger city mouse inspired me to finally write my own, "I am from" story.
*the guideline for writing your own "I am from" can be found at here at Fragments from Floyd.
I am from cast iron skillets and pot belly stoves, from wooden screen doors, porch swings, wringer washers and clothes hung to dry in the summer sun.
I am from farm house kitchens and the smell of fruit pies warm from the oven wafting through the air, from fruit cellars and Mason jars.
I am from finding tadpoles and toads and occasional litters of kittens under front porches, from burying my dog and goodbyes and finding comfort in cotton quilts that lay cool and smooth against tear stained cheeks.
I am from straw bales, corncribs and pastures of
I am from the lily of the valley, iris and lilacs and from stones that sparkle in the afternoon sun.
I am from hills and valleys that texture the land, from the blue grass of
I am from Grandaddy’s valley and family reunions with hay wagons filled end to end with home cooked goodness. I am from a line of womenfolk who really knew comfort food.
I am from Alice and Robert and Grace and Harry and Jon and Letha. I am from Mother’s gray blue eyes and Daddy’s cleft chin.
I am from Mothers work worn hands and making the best of everything, from “them that do, do, and them that don’t gossip about it” and “This is my kitchen and I’ll do as I darn well please.”
I am from
I am from my grandaddy, who saw the sacred in the land and the wild things.
I am from mile high buttermilk biscuits and milk gravy from cornbread and beans and elderberry pie, from canned tomatoes with bread and butter.
I am from factories and farms, from prize fighters, photographers, artists, poets and musicians of every kind, from old pianos, fiddles, flat top guitars and family sing alongs.
I am from Mother’s afghans and pansy doilies and recipes stored in old shoe boxes but mostly I am from fond memories stored in my mind.