Both of the girls are feeling better today. Their covid is just a case of the sniffles at this point, so we’re using home remedies to treat them. Unfortunately, they got me sick too. The breakthrough is mild, mainly sinuses and a sore throat.

While resting in bed, I’ve been looking through some of my old writing. I came across a poem called, Where I’m From. The poem is from a template shared years ago on Blind Pig & the Acorn. Click here to read other versions of the poem and here for a template to create your own.

The completed poem speaks volumes about culture and heritage. I went off-road, tweaking it to make it my own.

Enjoy!

Where I’m From

I am from old barns, cattle, and Ball mason jars.

I am from the head of Dutch Cove,
off the side of the road,
with the woodstove.

I am from the pines, crawdads, and moonshine;
from bales of hay and red clay.

I am from truck drivers, soldiers, and survivors;
from the hearts of Mamaw and Papaw.

I am from worriers and drinkers,
tokers and fighters;
storytellers and writers.

From I love you a bushel and a peck,
gimme some sugar,
hugs around the neck,
and bunches.

I am from church every Sundee,
river washed clean,
and Jesus Loves Me.

I’m from Canton and Champion;
from maters off the vine
and strawberry wine.

From the porch stringing beans,
the swinging over the creek,
the making it by any means,
and the family is what matters.

I am from Appalachia;
from the hillbillies and backwards;
from the blue-collars, steep hills,
and deep dark hollers.