I am from

The blog path leading me to this exercise: Pea soup > Simple things> Anything of interest?> Fragments from Floyd.

The template is here.

Then, write your own version-- where you're from...
You might be surprised what you find as you rummage around in those dusty old trunks--your personality, your family history and traits, and the places you've called home--as you complete the poem with your own memories and facts.

I think it would be a joy to read this personalized poem from a group of bloggers who "sort of" know each other. This could extend the depth of bond between strangers.

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I am from the brown leatherette cigarette case, the backyard swimming pool, and mashed potatoes from a box, from Dell’s Iced Tea and little white Keds and a carton of Kool Filter Kings.

I am from the brightest green house, the “good” turquoise carpet, the purple car parked out front because the garage is full of bikes and lawn mowers and empty baby food jars. After my father’s death, I am from piles of papers and corridors of boxes, and way too many cats.

I am from the locust tree that threatened to fall every storm, the crocuses that bloom in early spring under the front-porch evergreens, the maples in the backyard sheltering the never-finished patio. I am from the matched apple trees and tiger lilies growing out of the compost heap.

I am from freezing Christmas Eve afternoons finding the Perfect Tree with my impossible-to-please mother, from swimming at the Y on Friday nights and driving to Whale Beach on summer Saturdays, and stubbornness and quick-fire temper, from Sofrun and Sam-and-Elsie and Lala and Dustball.

I am from shouting and hollering and then, just as quickly, hugs and kisses; from never knowing quite how to express affection. I am from hours-long walks on Sunday afternoons and early morning talk radio on the religious station.

From After laughter comes tears, and I’ll never have anything nice, from I’m nervous, and Nucleus-1,2,3,4,5.

I am from church three times a week, and vacation bible school in the summer, punch and cheap cookies softening in the humidity, dressing up for Sunday school and playing tag in the parking lot.

I'm from Kiev, from running away to the army at sixteen, from half-a-block-from-Mount-Ephraim, from homemade birthday cakes and meatloaf and cups of hot sweet tea and rubber eggs and ice cream sundaes at Green Valley.

From Mom dumping ice cream on Daddy’s head, from Dad scrabbling through the gravel driveway to find the lost engagement ring, and from the way Uncle Johnny lost his hair to a bullet in the War.

I am from the boxes in my attic, the stuck-together Polaroids ruined in a basement flood, from the Ellis Island rubbing and the only family photo taken, before I was even thought of.

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