Where I am from...

I am coming to the party late with this poetry exercise. Elizabeth, Cay and Lissa already posted excellent reflections using this template. The whole thing is based on a poem written by George Ella Lyons Here is my very humble effort... I am from bell bottom jeans, asthma medicine and Baby Chrissy dolls. I am from the golden house on Oceanside road, there was no ocean nearby but it sounded nice. I am from a huge hydrangea bush, a Rose of Sharon tree humming with the sound of bees and alight with colorful butterflies and a tall pin oak too large for the small yard. I am from a running bases ditch worn in the backyard over years of play. I am from annual car trips up and down the east coast with me being car sick and Jim flying over the front seat, with crayons melting in sun in the back seat and a Viewfinder cartridge purchased at every battlefield, playing count the cow and license plate bingo with an ongoing list of how many states spotted. I am from quick Irish tempers and sentimental streaks a mile wide. I am from “don’t wake your father he worked all night” and “if you kill yourself doing that don’t come crying to me”. I am from seventies feel good Catholicism with Sister Barbara teaching CCD in American Flag jeans and singing kumbya while playing the guitar, from 11:15 Mass every Sunday, from an all girls Catholic prep school that bought modern feminism and a Catholic University with a Buddhist temple on campus, I am about the long journey home. I am from a Brooklyn born Irish family with a passion for spaghetti sauce and lasagna. From my mom’s super chocolate chip cookies and huge Thanksgiving feasts and blueberry pies for my birthday, Nana’s roast beef and Grandma’s Irish soda bread. I am from Gunnysacks dresses and Chaminade dances, from video killing the radio star. I am from my dad showing me how to bait a hook with a live worm on a rickety fishing boat in the middle of a huge lake in Maine and my mom getting sick from the smell of a skunk under the cabin, from my brother carrying the first fish he ever caught in his pocket for three days and my mom asking, “what in the name of all that’s holy stinks around here.” I am from Nana and Papa’s apartment with boxes of black and white photos of ladies in dresses and hats and babies posed in ruffled outfits, of drawers of beady 70s costume jewelry, games of Perquacky, Scrabble and Trivial Pursuit. I am of riding bikes and building forts, of tea parties and a Barbie dream house, of Monopoly tournaments and adrenaline shots. I am of a houseful of cousins on weekends and family dinners every night and traditions to carry on and love that never ends…