I am From Poem

I am from laptops and treadle sewing machines, from Murphy's Soap Oil and Macy's Cafe, of boiled coffee and steamed eggs.

I am from the edge of the Pacific Ocean, by the shallow tide pools filled with endless treasure gleaming in the setting sun, of Ceaders and Juniper and and pale pink roses.

I am from books, the pages filled with untold worlds, the smell of the page, the ink, hidden corners of the library, dusty shelves, lives folded out in an afternoon under the shade of the summer branches, crickets and birds singing in time.

I am from the white sage that grows on the hill side, the birch trees that come to the edge of the lake, their white bark a shocking contrast to the green of the spring leaves, and the blue water of the lake. The birds that call to each other and sway in the windy branches.

I am from waffles with ice cream and syrup for dinner and tenaciously stubborn, witty, musical and artistic, from Great Jane, Grandma Nellie and Elizabeth, Faith and Aunt Floss, Bird, Lucille and Aunt Marge, Uncle Jim and Grandpa Parker.

I am from the lazy afternoons in puddles of sunshine, sleeping with the Siamese cat. Bright sun on crisp white sheets, fresh from the cloths line, and smelling of sun and soap. A bright quilt to trace the afternoon sun as it crosses the summer sky. I am from long walks in the tall trees, deep in the ferns and rain and fog, always green and cool.

I am from always coloring outside those lines and making the grass with orange and purple and the sky with green and red. What will it look like if you draw it upside down? If the sun is blue, is it sad?

I am From The Fox Went Out On A Chilly Night, my pa playing the guitar, my mum the piano, all the silly songs, over and over, and I could have been a painter in Paris, but my father didn't think it a proper thing for a lady to do.

I am from Mennonites and Quakers, Recovering Catholics. We were taught to believe in god, but we were taught to call it nature, and we went to the church in the outdoors religiously, and I believe in fairies, gnomes, and elves and other things that don't have names.

I'm from Scotland, Ireland, Sweden, Norway and the wind, and pancakes for breakfast and spaghetti for dinner, chocolate cake that gets all over your face and Rhubarb pie for my birthday, the Earl of Parker and Sir Claude of the Wicked Wiskers.

I am from the brothers that marched to their own tune, a clarinet and a saxophone, the twins that died within hours of each other on a cold Wisconsin winter day,miles apart, and the widow that was left to raise her children after their father had succumbed to tuberculosis and my pa, who couldn't or wouldn't tell us how much pain he was in at the end, who still went up on the roof to clean out the gutters, and changed the brakes on his car the week before he passed.

I am from the drifting summer camp, the log cabin on the lake shore, the hot dry desert baked in the brilliant blue bowl of the sky, and at home on the ocean's shore, with sand in my toes and the sea mist in my hair, my hands and pockets brimming with the treasures of the day, longing to stay and never to leave, to burn the sparkling waters and moist sand into the cells of my memory, to smell the tide as it comes further in, and hold it forever inside. Each tiny pebble, shell, string of seaweed, and driftwood, lovingly placed as to never forget, to hear the cry of the gulls and see the sandpipers darting here and there, the pelicans gracefully coasting along the skyline, the clouds drifting, and the fog as it comes rolling in, my brother and sister and I sitting on the back step of the log cabin, our white hair and brown naked little butts, blissfully ignorant of anything but the moment.

I am from my pa dressed in his turtleneck and jazzy pants in front of the Jaguar smiling and young, my mother fresh with her cap and gown beginning new adventures, my grandma Nellie sitting on the porch with my sister, driving across the country in the Micro Bus, stopping at every historical marker, museum and gallery, my mother listening to the Mamma's and the Papa's in the eight track, my sisters fighting in the back, crayons melting in the heater grill, the landscape going on and on forever.

I am from that landscape, changing, staying the same, and going on...