I'm from...

I’m from jelly jar drinking glasses and  taxidermied deer, bass and pheasants on the wall.

From Chevy pickups with no air conditioning and water beds with mirrored headboards. I am from muddy ponds and mostly dry creeks.

I’m from the single-wide trailer house with brown carpet and wall-papered kitchen  that sat across a cattle guard down a long, gravel road.

Sweet tea, freckled noses, Dwight Yoakum and Clint Black Killin’ Time.

I’m from the place where the tall prairie grass grows between the stands of black jack oaks. Pipe and barbed-wire fence that needed fixed every so often.

I’m from dominoes and story telling and ever-resourceful jacks of all trades.

From grandmas and grandpas and mom and dad and sister and brother and uncles and aunts and cousins.

I’m from hunting and farming and back-slapping and loud laughing.

I’m from “We don’t waste food” and “Quit crying before I give you something to cry about” and What a Friend we Have in Jesus.

I’m from porch sitting, guitar picking, stick whittling and snuff dipping. Oklahoma and America.

I’m from homegrown squash, potatoes and okra, fried. And deer meat, also fried.

From divorces and remarriages and all the spectacle that comes with splitting homes, money, kids and lives, except it mostly wasn’t a spectacle, just a time to get through.

I’m from practicality and getting work done.

Quilts and crocheted names, photos of successful hunts, horseback rides, livestock shows, sister’s races, brother’s concerts and graduations on the wall or high up in the closet.

I’m from hard, hard workers. No harder workers ever existed. Tough like the land and the weather and the rattlesnakes and mosquitos. Not scared of nothing except laziness and the devil.

Having fun and running wild with one or two of a whole childhood’s worth of doggy friends

I’m from the sounds of football and Nascar races (God bless #3) on Sunday afternoons and from Mash and Baywatch and Johnny Carson with my dad.

Dang, y’all. I never knew -or at least I had forgotten- how country I am until I wrote this. Not a city memory in me! Never forget where you come from, my friends. If you want to try your hand at this writing practice, you can check out the place I found it, Wendy’s blog (Wendy, by the way, is a precious lady), and find the link to the worksheet at the bottom of her post. If you do, please share a link in the comments here or email me if you don’t want to publish it to the World Wide Web, as they call it. I’d love to read what you write about where (and who and what) you’re from.