Where I'm From

(From this writing exercise comes this:)

I am from landwash, mountain valley, trailer park, and forest, from saddle leather, horse liniment, big yellow bags of No Name dog food, and from baling twine and Watchtower magazines.

I am from the white and green mobile home converted to wooden house. I am from the home-made white camper, and 31' fifth wheel travel trailer pulled on the back of a 3/4 tonne crew cab bright orange Chevy.

I am from the humble potato, planted, weeded, picked, peeled, and chopped until my back ached, knees cried out, and fingers cramped and waterlogged, from the fields of green and gold timothy, heads bobbing in sweet-smelling breeze, pulled out with care so I could chew the tender stems and pick my teeth with the tough ones.

I am from door-to-door Saturday mornings and three-times-a-week Kingdom Hall meetings, from hours spent reading novels on the back of a pony, from picking berries and rose hips after school, from stacking wood onto the dogsled and alongside the house, from Powell and Twombly and Rolf.

I am from the attention-seeking side of the family, the side that always says "Look at me!", and from the side who believes it is a sign of weakness to show tears. I'm from skin stinging from turning the other cheek.

From blood of the butchered chickens, pigs, deer, moose, goats, rabbits, and fish being poured onto the ground and always reading the labels to be sure there were no animal byproducts--not even in the cat food--and being told we weren't superstitious even while I shivered to hear tales of demons coming out of role-playing books, second-hand clothing, and Smurf wallpaper.

I am from three preceding generations of Jehovah's Witnesses, zig-zagging their ways back and forth across both sides of the family. There will be no fifth generation. It stopped with my sister and with me.

I'm from Dorn Ridge and Springhill and Dead Man's Bay, from plain-cooked meat and boiled potatoes, and from Jiggs dinner on Sundays.

From my Dad embarrassing me by doing backflips and log-rolling down hills in front of the other kids, Mom's Barbara Cartland and Louis L'amour books covering every table, countertop, and shelf in the house, my sister spearing a broom handle through my door during yet another fight between us.

I am from washed-out photos from Cameron Beach, pictures of us eating lobsters or of us all holding collie puppies up by their arms, from hikes through sagebrush and tumbleweeds to craggy outcrops and jigsaw pines, where we'd light a fire and boil water in a tin can and eat bannock cooked over a stick. I couldn't want for more colour and flavour.

What I Did Last Night

Pleasant Dreams, Little One

Kids' stories were different, once upon a time.

There was a naughty boy; I do not know what his name was, but it was not Charles, nor George, nor Arthur, for those are all very pretty names: but there was a robin came in at his window one very cold morning — shiver — shiver; and its poor little heart was almost frozen to death. And he would not give it the least crumb of bread in the world, but pulled it about by the tail and hurt it sadly, and it died. Now a little while after, the naughty boy’s papa and mamma went away and left him, and then he could get no victuals at all, for you know he could not take care of himself. So he went about to every body — Pray give me something to eat, — I am very hungry. And every body said, No, we shall give you none, for we do not love cruel, naughty boys. So he went about from one place to another, till at last he got into a thick wood of trees; for he did not know how to find his way any where; and then it grew dark, quite dark night. So he sat down and cried sadly; and I believe the bears came and eat him up in the wood, for I never heard any thing about him afterwards.

- “For Children Three Years Old,” from Lessons for Children by Anna Laetitia Barbauld, Philadelphia, 1818