Where I Am From...

My older kids had this writing assignment the first week of school, and I've scratched at it myself since.

I sort of have to make myself remember, and little by little, so much comes back...




Where I Am From

I am from dry dusty desert at 5000 feet,
from mountain peaks that change from pink, then rose, then to purple at sunset.
from flat mesas, and arroyos that suddenly fill, and a green valley that tells where the river runs.
On a clear day, you can see 500 miles to the west.

I am from white washed adobe walls,
from rough to the touch stucco that scrapes your skin,
from flat roofs and exposed wood beams.
We would walk the cinder block walls between houses like a tightrope.

I am from chamisa, blooming brilliant goldenrod yellow,
from yucca, creamy blossoms and sharp tined sword leaves,
from cactus, magenta prickly pears and skeleton spines.
My grandpa grew rose bushes loaded with bright blooms in the summertime.

I am from roasted turkey and dressing with gravy on Thanksgiving,
from steaming posole and tamales on Christmas Eve,
from ham and scallope potatoes at Easter.
We always thumped out a perfect watermelon for the Fourth of July.

I am from green and red chile, roasted in the parking lot corner every fall,
from blue corn enchiladas and burritos smothered and spicy,
from pinto beans and tortillas, and salsa and chips.
If given a choice, I would pick apple pie and vanilla ice cream almost every time.

I am from the State Fair and the rodeo, and fry bread and blue ribbons,
from the Sandia Peak tramway and the Balloon Fiesta, out in the cold before dawn,
from the zoo and Old Town, Indian jewelers with their turquoise and silver on bright blankets lining the sidewalk.
Dodging traffic, we would skip across Stadium to fill help fill the Pit for Lobo basketball, Mike Roberts echoing from radios along the way.

I am from climbing on rocks and swinging on trees,
from bicycles fast down Suicide Hill,
from hide and go seek in most unlikely places.
If I went barefoot the entire summer, the goathead stickers would hardly even hurt.

I am from work hard and finish a job well,
from make your bed when you wake up,
from “please” and “thank you” and “yes ma’am” and “no sir.”
“… Don’t let the bedbugs bite, and when you wake up, don’t make a peep.”

I am from church on Sunday,
and then church on Christmas and Easter,
and then from no church at all.

I am from Jim and Orell and Max and Martha,
from a newspaper typesetter and proof reader,
from an Air Force officer and a teacher.
I would read my books from the heights of the garage roof and the top apple tree limb.

Sifting through images in my mind,
landmarks to remember, few photos to confirm.
I am from those moments,
snapshots of time long ago.

(photo credit:  Mrs. Smith (me) and Mrs. Jones (my sister), probably circa 1970, if I had to guess...)