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.
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,
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.