Where I'm From
I am from the Deep South…Atmore, the Gulf of Mexico, Mobile Bay, Mobile Square and grandma and grandpa’s homey little house.
From Sunbeam bread and Little Debbie Cakes, cold Coca Cola, fig preserves, shelling peas and fresh cow’s milk.
I’m from my little black "ridey horsey" and Sunday drives. I’m from old pickup trucks and little old ladies who didn’t know how to drive.
I am from the upstairs house with a bird’s eye view, and the old Galloway house with a ghostly tale that’s been told more than a time or two.
A little cottage row house, in Cottage Hill and tossing to and fro at the water’s edge, to a little country store in the middle of nowhere, where I can still see the tung nut trees, doodlebugs, wild roses, blackberry vines, bird nests, pretty blue eggs, and cute baby birds.
I am from Spanish moss, Azalea Trails, sandy beaches, honeysuckle vines, camellias, and corn fields that stretched beyond sight.
I'm from an era and a storybook life that's been lost but not forgotten.
I’m from old smokehouses made out of logs, with dirt floors.
I’m from a time and place that will never be the same.
I am from big family reunions, memories of those faces and memories I mourn.
I’m from the city and the country. From city blocks, window shopping, to playing in the loft of a big old barn full of hay.
I'm from century-old farms and little one-room shanties.
From sweet aunties to dear cousins, and laughing til I cried.
From little tea parties, family meals and think about it all now and then.
I am from self-learners and persistence, working hard and making do, who trusted in the good Lord.
I’m from stories of the Wampus Cat, The Sandman, and buried gold.
From quilting, sewing and keeping house. From Sunday dinners and taking naps.
I’m from the old school, I know what it’s all about.
I am from old-time preachin’ and gospel singin’.
Where people knew how to sing, to say Amen.
To shake hands and rattle the windows with hell, fire, and brimstone.
I’m from Amazing Grace, Rock of Ages and 'Neath the Old Olive Trees.
I’m from the Stars Falling, the heart of Dixie,
Mississippi mud, fish fries and hushpuppies.
I’m from raking leaves to run through, bonfires, and roasting hotdogs.
Watching with amazement the woods and trees full of fireflies.
And the mystery and suspense of family secrets.
I’m from singin', playin' the piano, writing songs and teaching.
I’m from a storyteller, lullabies from my Scotch-Irish grandpa and signs of the moon and how to plant pumpkins from my Creek Indian grandmother.
I’m from southern gospel quartets, the old white wooden church-house that has been torn down.
I’m from the cinder block house where we had VBS, cookies, Kool-Aid, wedding cake, baby showers, and temporary church. I’m from a time when men were men and women were women and children minded their manners and played outside till dusk.
I am from grassy hillsides, pecan groves, gurgling creeks, and bare dirt yards.
From a swinging gate with a weight tied on, wash tubs to bathe in, cold springs to chill milk jugs and rubbing boards to scrub work clothes.
I’m from sprinkling bottles, rolling up clothes to chill and iron.
From long skirts, Brogan boots and black felt Stetson hats.
I’m from doll clothes made on an old treadle machine.
I’m from an old trunk full of faint memories from my mother’s childhood and fragrant lavender wisterias shaped by grandpa’s loving hands.
I’m from magnolias, moonlight and twinkling ripples on a sunlit pond. And I’m from good times and hard times and love all around.
From Sunbeam bread and Little Debbie Cakes, cold Coca Cola, fig preserves, shelling peas and fresh cow’s milk.
I’m from my little black "ridey horsey" and Sunday drives. I’m from old pickup trucks and little old ladies who didn’t know how to drive.
I am from the upstairs house with a bird’s eye view, and the old Galloway house with a ghostly tale that’s been told more than a time or two.
A little cottage row house, in Cottage Hill and tossing to and fro at the water’s edge, to a little country store in the middle of nowhere, where I can still see the tung nut trees, doodlebugs, wild roses, blackberry vines, bird nests, pretty blue eggs, and cute baby birds.
I am from Spanish moss, Azalea Trails, sandy beaches, honeysuckle vines, camellias, and corn fields that stretched beyond sight.
I'm from an era and a storybook life that's been lost but not forgotten.
I’m from old smokehouses made out of logs, with dirt floors.
I’m from a time and place that will never be the same.
I am from big family reunions, memories of those faces and memories I mourn.
I’m from the city and the country. From city blocks, window shopping, to playing in the loft of a big old barn full of hay.
I'm from century-old farms and little one-room shanties.
From sweet aunties to dear cousins, and laughing til I cried.
From little tea parties, family meals and think about it all now and then.
I am from self-learners and persistence, working hard and making do, who trusted in the good Lord.
I’m from stories of the Wampus Cat, The Sandman, and buried gold.
From quilting, sewing and keeping house. From Sunday dinners and taking naps.
I’m from the old school, I know what it’s all about.
I am from old-time preachin’ and gospel singin’.
Where people knew how to sing, to say Amen.
To shake hands and rattle the windows with hell, fire, and brimstone.
I’m from Amazing Grace, Rock of Ages and 'Neath the Old Olive Trees.
I’m from the Stars Falling, the heart of Dixie,
Mississippi mud, fish fries and hushpuppies.
I’m from raking leaves to run through, bonfires, and roasting hotdogs.
Watching with amazement the woods and trees full of fireflies.
And the mystery and suspense of family secrets.
I’m from singin', playin' the piano, writing songs and teaching.
I’m from a storyteller, lullabies from my Scotch-Irish grandpa and signs of the moon and how to plant pumpkins from my Creek Indian grandmother.
I’m from southern gospel quartets, the old white wooden church-house that has been torn down.
I’m from the cinder block house where we had VBS, cookies, Kool-Aid, wedding cake, baby showers, and temporary church. I’m from a time when men were men and women were women and children minded their manners and played outside till dusk.
I am from grassy hillsides, pecan groves, gurgling creeks, and bare dirt yards.
From a swinging gate with a weight tied on, wash tubs to bathe in, cold springs to chill milk jugs and rubbing boards to scrub work clothes.
I’m from sprinkling bottles, rolling up clothes to chill and iron.
From long skirts, Brogan boots and black felt Stetson hats.
I’m from doll clothes made on an old treadle machine.
I’m from an old trunk full of faint memories from my mother’s childhood and fragrant lavender wisterias shaped by grandpa’s loving hands.
I’m from magnolias, moonlight and twinkling ripples on a sunlit pond. And I’m from good times and hard times and love all around.
Email me: FeminineWays
Header byMeneerke bloem - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15249688
