I am from rusty Tractors, and green gardens, from Rainbow Brites, and New Kids on The Block.
I am from big white farm houses that smell like fried chicken, where no one locks the door and everyone is family.
I am from the smell of hay, the song of a whipporwill at dusk, swinging on the front porch swing with my grandaddy.
I am from every other weekend two weeks in the summer and noon on Christmas, from my Daddy’s brown eyes , the Smith’s , James’ and Greene’s.
I am from a mother’s hands that were harsh and cold, and a grandmothers open arms to comfort my cries.
I am from, “Children should be seen and not heard“, and “Listen, listen, the cats a pissin. ‘”
I am from church on Sunday morning, Sunday evenings, and Wednesday nights, from GA camp, bible school, and learning the Lords prayer at 5.From preachers cryin’ in the pulpit, and some that wear google-eyed glasses to mix things up.
I am from a small town with one caution light, WWII veterans, peaches, hush puppies, and fried catfish.
I am from the summer of early days, cousins playing in the pasture until nightfall, from chasing fireflies, and dirt road walks,middle of the day creek splash wars, and dripping banana Popsicle.
I am From Christmas at Grandma Farrs, and the uncle with the trick thumb, from Kittens instead of Halloween candy, from pick up stick and puzzles hidden in the piano bench.
I am from a wood paneled den, a collage of photo frames crowded with dated, faded memories of a time that once was, of punch bug memories and fish fries, of sitting around the dinner table after all the food is gone talking about them good ol’ days, from long walks in the pasture, to boat rides on the lake, from fishin’ on the dock with my Grandaddy.
I am from my grandma’s house, a home I will always run to because it is where I was loved.
Where are you from?
A good friend of mine did this blog here, and I loved it.
Do you want to know where you are going? Go here to find the template.