I am From

As I wandered the internet reading fabric artists blogs I was challenged to write one of these:
March 11, 2008

I am From


I am from Pacific evaporated milk on hot plum cobbler, from Nabob coffee, and Squirrel peanut butter in the can, and fried bologna.
I am from a house of unpainted boards, water hauled from town in barrels, and the outhouse up the path.
I am from rocky hills covered in penstemon, from Avalanch lilies, cowslips, shooting stars and Indian paintbrush, from the red tailed hawk screaming high above the trees and the fine, fat deer tippy toeing through the garden.
I am from New Year’s dinner with all the cousins, and from intense Monopoly games,
From Henry Good and Hulda Lorentzen, from Harry Peterman and Minnie Barraclough,
From Henry and Bette, who once was Margaret and is again,
I am from quick Irish humour and men who shed tears with great pain.
From “Smarten up!” and “Quiet, don’t frighten Grandpa.”
I am from Protestant Irish from County Cork and Presbyterians from York Mills.
I am from church meetings three times a week and a solid faith; faith as natural and deep as breathing.
I am from the Kootenays by way of the praries, from fresh raison bread fragrant with cardamon and wild mountain huckleberries weighing down the vines.
From a mother cutting out cotton dresses two at a time for two little matching girls and a father who, as little more than a boy, took torture rather than put on the uniform to kill.
I am from the farmer who chose the land with the rock hill, and the mother who nurtured her flowers with dishwater and determination,
From farmers and carpenters, and railway men.
I am from dusty albums stored in a trunk and memories of the heart.

Nora McDowell