I Am From

I am from bicycles

without banana seats or high-rise handle bars,

from unfrosted Poptarts

on Saturday mornings

and rootbeer at the beach.

From "who's jumpin' on who"

(with a 1/2 inch of beer, nursed over 2 hours)

and the Bub Club.

I am from all the military duplexes,

shared with our new best friends,

backyards all strung together without thought of fencing,

dotted with swingsets and sandboxes.

Base-housing suburbia.

From summer street floods,

playing "swing the statue",

and seeking refuge from geese on a picnic table,

my dad bravely holding them at bay.

I am from the circular rose garden

and linear zinnia beds

of one grandmother,

the haphazard, glorious jumble of Japanese lantern plants and bamboo

of my other grandmother,

and the rhododendron and hosta shade oasis

that is my mother's garden.

I am from fresh blueberry pie for dinner,

made from the blueberries you harvested that afternoon,

topped with fresh whipped cream,

a quarter of a pie for each,

meticulously divided.

From "Bring in the second turkey"

and after-dinner bluegrass concerts with Paul, Jim, and Chris,

spare instruments on the ground,

my grandmother not in the kitchen,

but smiling and rocking back and forth in the circle.

I am from frugality

and generosity

and sewing your own doll clothes.

From Christmases

where the pile of presents seemed larger than the tree,

itself seeming to scrape the ceiling.

From hundreds of books,

each read hundreds of times.

From put toilet paper down on that public seat first,

don't wear your shoes in the house

and play nicely.
I am from Christian Science Sunday school,

singing the beautiful hymns

as my sister twirls her twin white-blond pigtails with her fingers,

and the pursuit of medicine as my calling.

I'm from West Coast,

East Coast and

everything in between,

from Japan and Arizona and "Mostly Portland".

From crab at the beach each summer

and oyster stew on Christmas eve.

From canned fruit cocktail with a candle-clad marshmallow

before opening stockings

and jule kaga

before presents proper, Christmas Day.

From the tale of Grandma Cos and The Hat,

the retaliatory open-faced peanut butter sandwich in the face,

and the mistake of using poison oak branches

to roast weenies.

From Ma Jessie and Matt Ole Boy

and the House on Hood street.

From Mount Talbert,

named for my grandmother's grandfather.

I am from slide shows on a special night

(all my early memories a carbon copy of each of those shots),

"Grandma, You Were A Daisy",

and the oral tradition of Great Aunt Doris,

laughing so hard that it was hard to hear the tale at times.

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(Thank you, Rozanne. This was lovely.)

(Anyone else?)