Where I'm From. Copy this template and fill in the blanks. (inspired by our Bloggy Boot Camp Writer's Workshop)
Ahhh, MamaKat! How I struggled with this prompt! Being lazy, I saw "copy the template", and I figured I was 50% done...little did I know what memories this little endeavor would bring back to the surface of my mind. Knowing how I've totally identified myself as coming from a house of horrors when in reality, there were some times that were good, I still persisted, because the template text sat there, ready for filling in.
Thank God Childhood Does Not Determine Overall HappinessI am from coal dust embedded in my grandfather's lungs, from Volkswagen and physical abuse.
I am from the subdivision of 60's brick ramblers, where the sound of playing children could be heard for twelve hours straight on summer days.
I am from the strawberries I picked every summer for the Mother's Club Strawberry Festival, crocus blooms, hopeful in the snow, the azaleas, tulips and clouds that moved across the sky bringing shadows and rain to the earth.
I am from cursing and stubbornness, from Stan and Ruth and Bach.
I am from the long line of over-sleepers and lovers of Pinochle games on Sunday afternoons.
From 'children are to be seen and not heard' and 'goddamnmotherfuckingsonofabitchbastardwhoreprickcunt', said with feeling.
I am from the church of 'Our Holy Mother of You Drop the Kids Off at Sunday School While I Empty All of Their Drawers On Their Beds, and They'll Clean Up All The Clothing When They Get Home, Dammit', causing any good Christian thought learned during Sunday School to be eradicated from my mind once I saw the mountain of laundry on my bed.
I’m from Western Pennsylvania coal country, where German sauerkraut is cooked next door to Polish halushki or Italian sausage.
From the time Gary lost my mother's last dollar when he went to the store for bread and was tied to the hot water tank as punishment (at four years of age), the closet full of clothes I hated to wear because I was not the girl my mother wanted me to be, and the time Greg and his friend Mike shot deer hunting arrows at each other until an arrow landed on the roof and I had to take my 15-year old self across the street to ask the horny, perverted construction workers to bring a ladder to rescue Greg, who had climbed on the roof to fetch the arrow, but had no idea how to get back down.
I am from the second drawer in the side table in the Man Cave, my grandmother's blue pig creamer and my grandfather's huge FATHER cup and saucer, which are priceless, unlike the glass I knocked from that table yesterday, spilling the iced tea on the carpet, and causing the glass to land directly on a hammer, glass splinters flying this way and that while I uttered one of my mother's favorite curse words.