I have filled in the "Where I am From Template" and while not completely happy, I am sending it forward like a newborn baby with the cheesy coating not completely peeled away.
I AM FROM
I am from worn books and small farms, from Sears and Roebuck and home-canned sweet cherries.
I am from the big picture windows facing the breath-taking snowy peaks.
I am from a homemade house, a barn of swift swallows and meadows of cow grass; I am from the irrigation pond and the foothills riddled with chipmunks and cactus.
I am from picnics on the sides of swiftly flowing rivers and three people talking at once, from immigrant 14-year-olds and Mary Jane and Daniel and Kitten and Richard and Doenie and Debi.
I am from going six directions at once and stretching the dollar until it snaps; From skinny legs and talking too much.
I am from now and then religion that came as needed and disappeared just as fast. Church was summer camp crafts and evening vespers.
I'm from the Italian Alps and the rugged gravel paths above timberline, homemade pasta sauce and Sunday fried chicken.
From directing children’s backyard theater rehearsals, the long hikes under the shushing pine trees, and the childlessness and parentlessness of others.
I am from a five-dollar camel-back trunk, a million digital photos and collected sea shells whispering priceless memories.