I have been a slow blogger because I want to put up our Christmas pictures and couldn’t find the camera. Today I found the camera and pictures, but I’m not going to put them up yet, because I’m too tired to make a lot of sense. For the last week, however, I’ve been reading other people’s blogs (strangers, mostly, and I know it is weird). It is kind of addictive, though. Anyhow, one of my favorites is owlhaven.net. If you get bored, check it out. Anyhow, she re-introduced me to the “I am From” poem, and I decided I needed to make my own. Today’s post is a little about my childhood, here is my poem.
I am From
I am from books read by the light in the crack of the door, from Skipper dolls with houses of wood and Ninja turtles spinning on their backs like dreidals.
I am from the grey and blue house painted yellow and green while Mom was in California, in the middle of 24th Avenue, between two old ladies who respectively accepted help in the garden and yelled at you for shoveling their snow.
I am from crocuses popping up in the middle of the snowy yard to announce spring had come, the forbidden afternoons in the maple tree with wooden steps that make it cry.
I am from oysters on holiday mornings with Christmas presents wrapped like animals filling the front rooms, from Smiths and Tolsons and Sunday dinners where Andy and I shared our greatest adventures.
I am from those who cry at the pulpit and baby-sitting should be free so they can attend the temple.
From “she has to come to our house this time” and “will you please vacuum and set the table” and watching mom dance with her broom.
I am from Sundays sitting on pews playing games on paper with brothers, singing hymns and shyly, proudly baring testimony. From reading the scriptures and kneeling in prayer and “sometimes Sunday School answers are the best ones”, from families can be together forever.
I am from Utah and Germany, England and Scotland, sour cream enchiladas and mashed potato mountains.
From a grandpa I met through stories of train rides and not waking up the veterans, and the orphanage he was fleeing. From I’m “helping” dad work in his shop.
I am from photos in albums and boxes becoming digital and put on CD’s, from spending New Years Day giving them labels, and this is my favorite, no this one instead, I remember that, and I hope we go back there again.