I’m getting older. I’m thinking more about family, roots, and where we came from. I’m remembering more and looking back at childhood – mostly fondly. I’ve always found history engaging (in a let’s read some intriguing and possibly romanticized historical fiction or listening to old family stories kind of way.) I think family history is intriguing – but never sit long enough to ask the right questions or retain the memory of those conversation enough to recount the stories accurately. I’ve always been a little introspective, a little retrospective so when I found an example of this completed poem template while doing some random blogger exploration, it really struck a chord. (Side note, see the link at the top that says “Next Blog >>>”? Just click it to jump to a new random blog.)
Where I’m From
I am from a swing hanging in my grandparents yard, from Kraft dinner and fresh jam made from plump strawberries we picked ourselves.
I am from the white farm house with too many rooms, the steep staircase, the big back yard, the greenhouses smelling of damp soil and sweet blooms. The home filled with laughter, tears, sibling spats and happy memories.
I am from the wheat fields, the corn fields, the green fields rich with black muck, the stagnant waters of the canal, the willow trees tempting as they sway in the breeze.
I am from loud Thanksgiving dinners with cousins, aunts, and uncles spilling from each room, from endless rounds of broken telephone, from stubborness and quick tempers, from kindness and unconditional love, from Hofstedes and Weenings and finally, Browns.
I am from prayers before meals, from devotions after dinner, and from the bargain hunters always looking for the next good deal.
From bedtime blessings, “May the Lord bless you and keep you”, and from never believing in Santa but always pretending to hear his sleigh.
I am from a family who sees Christianity as a relationship, not a religion. Where faith is a lifestyle. Where your actions should reflect the light of your heart. Where Jesus Christ is redemption, not a swear word.
I’m from “The Marsh”, “The Hill”, The Netherlands, completely Canadian, entirely Dutch. From oliebollen, stamppot, zandkoekjes bakken, a quick hamburger or chicken and rice.
From the first time Opa gave Oma a kiss, skating on a frozen canal in Holland, from my parents’ Friday night wedding in a church hall, my mom in her handmade dress, from the dangers of double-riding your bike without a helmet, cracking heads and lying unconscious waiting for a good samaritan.
I am from puzzles and photos in Oma’s closet, from chalk and treasures in Pake’s basement, from days spent roaming the woods, from rounds of Uno and Rummikub. I’m from strong, hard-working men and efficient housewives raising endless sons and daughters, from a family that has always been close but now lives apart, seen less often but never loved less. From a heritage rich in faith and fortitude, from welcoming hugs and lessons in patience, this is where I’m from and where I’m from is part of me.
~~ For the blog that inspired this post, visit here
~~ For your own Where I’m From template and another completed example, visit here.
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