I am from the depths of the round, gilt-edged mirror that hung over the fireplace mantle, reflecting my first homecoming, from the unremitting ticking of the Seth Thomas clock that bonged on the hour, and from the voices and faces that morphed slowly into mother, father, brother, sisters.
I am from the beamed and shuttered farmhouse whose walls hugged me close and kept me safe, from the giant maple that leaned over the road and the locusts that dropped their sticky yellow catkins on the broad lawn; from apple trees bent low for climbing, from stone walls where snakes lazed in the summer sun, from stream and pond and open meadows, and woods that begged to be explored. I am from a place of gentle blue hills and lazy river valleys and small dairy farms, a place of Yankee ingenuity and rock-ribbed landscapes.
I am from shy purple violets, delicate lily of the valley, milkweed and chicory and Queen Anne's lace, giant mullein and sugar maples, tall hollyhocks leaning against the side of the barn; from golden roadside grasses and the sunlit ripples of the brook that bent around the yard like an elbow; from the wild blackberries and raspberries that grew in a tangle and scratched the unheeding hand; from the deep rich loam that fed the lettuces and carrots and round, red tomatoes; from the small ring of fairy flowers that grew beneath a slender birch.
I am from songs sung to make work less arduous and feet that danced when chores were finished; from a distant Native American woman of the Anishinabe tribe, from French explorers and settlers with names like Desrochers and Brien and Guertin; from the Dutch Longstreets and the English Clarkes; from the Bird Clan and the Hoof Clan, from Parisian huggers and kissers, and from cool, remote aristocrats.
I am from the lovers of sweets and the corpulent, from engineers and artists and explorers, from students of history and teachers of science, from Civil War generals, and shopkeepers.
From Yankee thrift, from"a stitch in time saves nine" and "pretty is as pretty does." From "waste not, want not" and "make do or do without." From "never look a gift horse in the mouth," and "always wear clean underwear in case you are hit by a bus." From ocean goers and river-crossers, from survivors of two World Wars and a Great Depression.
I come from rosary beads, sacred Sunday mornings, and black robed men and women, some of whom preached one thing and practiced another, whose meanness was covered by a thin veneer of charity, who drove me, finally, to seek a kinder, clearer way. And I am from distant Native American stock, from those who respected the land and conversed with the spirits, yet waged war on their enemies.
I'm from far away places across the sea - Ireland, France, England, the Netherlands. I am from remote Canadian settlements and bustling Canadian cities. I am from the New World - dense woodlands and wide-open plains, New Rochelle, NY, the Massachusetts mill town of Holyoke, and of the rural Berkshire Hills.
From the grandmother who came down from a north central Canadian farm to work in the silk mills at the age of 14 and who spent her first week's salary on a hat so large you had to peer under the brim to catch a glimpse of her face; from the grandfather who was part carpenter, part artist, part photographer, part magician; from a third cousin named Longstreet who, in the 1800s, commanded the Southern Army at the battle of Gettysburg.
I am from the old black and white photos of my childhood farm, of a slow pony named Blaze and a female cat named Roger. I am from a blue plaster bunny that appeared in my Easter basket every year for as long as I can remember; from the green china teapot my mother used every day; from the blue Columbia bicycle I helped to buy for myself with chore money. I am from the colored photos of cousins as teenagers, of weddings and the next generation dressed in old family christening gowns. I am scarlet sunsets over blue mountains, the hiss and tumble of coastal waves, the yellow corn pollen dust in August. I am birdsong and raindrops and star-bright nights.
I am from the dust under my feet and the air that I breathe. I am from beauty and sorrow. I am.
9 comments:
When this meme first did the rounds I too attempted the ‘I Am’ but I doubt that I wrote anywhere near as moving and lyrical as you did here.
One thing I noticed, here as well as in other bloggers’ ‘I Am’ posts, most of us come from the land in some form or other. Perhaps that makes us more receptive to meditation and reflection.
Lovely, thank you.
I cried a bit after I finished reading. Tears of joy. So happy that childhoods such as yours (and mine) existed. I have hopes that those that go on from us may benefit from the lessons we learned and are still learning. PS Now I'm trying Tai Chi on-line. I'm very klutzy but persistent. Still also practicing the sit/stand.
Simply breath taking, I loved it better even the 2nd time.
Thank you Friko - if you ever write it I hope you'll post it. Your writing is so honest and eminently readable. I spent a good deal of my childhood alone in the woods and fields, and in the company of dogs, cats, and farm animals. My mother had a scientific bent, my dad an historical one so books were also constant companions. Perhaps it's the combination of rural life and reading that helped me tend to be more a dreamer than a doer...
Barb - I had a wonderful childhood. It held ups and downs (bullied at school, death of pets and loved ones, rules I thought were unfair, etc.), but I had parents that loved me, woods and fields to play in, chores that kept me busy, and friends that kept me company.
OOTP - thank you.!
I remember doing this when I first started blogging. I can see after reading yours, that I need to up my game. Maybe I will revisit that post and revise and expand?
Tabor - sounds good. I'll enjoy reading it when you do!
Pauline this is so beautiful it touched my heart, more so in that I was writing about my insides vs my outsides, how I carry the insides with me always so heavily disguised until I can live my insides.
Thank you. Thank you.
XO
WWW
This sent me scurrying down memory lane! Has it really been twelve years since we all did this? Those years have flown....I have a list in my sidebar of all the bloggers I followed who did it back then and yours is on the list but, when I clicked, there was nothing there. Is this an updated version? It reads like poetry! Modern gadgets are robbing children today of the simple pleasures of our childhoods though you can't miss what you never had. If I could do it all again, I'd still want MY childhood and eye contact over one filled with noise and crowds and strangers, virtual instead of flesh-and-blood friends, and gadgets, gadgets, gadgets.
WWW - and thank you. I'm glad you found comfort.
Molly - yes, this is a rework of the original. I saw a repeat of the challenge and thought it worth a try. And I agree, I liked my own childhood more than I like what I see of today's youth.
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