I am from jackrocks sparkling through the dry red dirt, soapstone quarries filled with water for swimming or fishing, -just don’t get hurt, from grapes growing on the vine to be turned into wine, , from Spam fried up for dinner and playing in the woods until dark with no thought of harm, drinking from the babbling brooks and roaming the farm.
I am from the small wooden house down in the hollow, rickety in its age, fallen into disrepair with no one to fix her, lopsided stone foundation
crumbling beneath her and the “johnny house” out back and Sears/Penney’s catalogues for toilet paper.
I am from the lilacs growing around the outside wall, the Queen Anne’s growing in the fields – bursting with delicate beauty that you can’t touch because you’ll get those danged chiggars but you can’t help but touch because of their intricate beauty and end up lying in your bed at night scratching your skin off – wishing you hadn’t given in to its seductive call.
I am from Sunday dinners at Big Mama’s house and those Harris hips over which we all grouse, from Lester Carter, Estes Harris, Grannies Sally and Annie, and Reeses, Johnsons, and Nashes.
I am from the don’t trust strangers because they just want to harm you and even if they do I’ll still let them come in and stay for supper because that’s what we do – to do otherwise would not be hospitable and we are Southern and that is our nature.
From you have to go to bed when it storms and pull the covers over your head so the lightening can’t find you and you can’t go out after dark by yourself or Yum Yum will catch you and eat you alive, we all know that’s true.
I am from not celebrating holidays because it was evil but we will do it anyway because if we don’t tell anyone they won’t know. I am from never knowing what was really true, from fear of dying before you reach adulthood because the world is going to end but never fear because if you do what you’re supposed to you will be saved but all your friends will die because even though they are your friends, deep down they are bad people because they don’t know the truth. God forgives and forgets your sins but we don’t so it’s okay if we shun you for some imaginary sin. I am from never knowing what was really true therefore never knowing if I was good enough to be saved.
I’m from Walton’s Mountain, home of John Boy and the Carter’s Old Home Place and the Monacan Indians who roamed this land long before we stole it from them. I am from corn bread and fried chicken (the ones who were clucking around the back yard the morning before you ate them), kale and collard greens, mashed potatoes and gravy and biscuits made by Big Mama’s hands.
From the grandmother who dabbled in black magic and made her kitchen table walk, the father who was a dowser and a rabble rouser, who knew how to use a still and had a strong will, and the grandmother who died before she got to see her children grow up, and the great grandmother who traveled the countryside birthing babies and setting bones for a live chicken or cold water in a cup.
I am from scrap books and photo albums hidden in a closet for safekeeping and photos covering the walls and almost every surface lovingly displayed for all the world to see the beautiful faces of those you have loved, those you remember and those you cannot forget, priceless artifacts, proof of your enduring love.
This post was brought to you by Mama Kat’s Almost World Famous Writer’s Workshop and prompt #2.) Where I’m From. Copy this template and fill in the blanks. (inspired by our Bloggy Boot Camp Writer’s Workshop).