I am from cast iron skillets, from white Keds and yellow foul weather gear.
I am from the afternoon southerly, splintery docks, the cannon fired at sunset.
I am from coral bells and basket of gold, blue hosta and purple irises, from cherry trees made for climbing, and ivy covered walls.
I am from Christmas Eve and blonde hair, from Albert and Marcus and Marie. Marion too, she who revealed little, is that where I'm from?
I am from hoarders and fixers, cooks and lawyers, politicians and artists.
From stinky cheese and poison, and a fog as thick as pea soup.
I am from show tunes, Handel, Pete Seeger. From summer Sundays at the beach, and winter Sundays at the skating rink. From red velvet seats and first position arabesques, and Edward Gorey in his many rings.
I'm from Germany and France and Ireland and England, from weisswurt and springerle, hot cookies and gorgonzola, oysters on the half shell and icy cold Schaefer long-necks, and five pound bags of Bazzini’s pistachios.
From the rules about mayonnaise on the teak, beer croquet in the side yard, the blowing of the big horn and hand-cranked ice cream after a long hot day.
I am from fly rods, bear skin coats, block parties. From black and white snapshots and Kodachrome slides. From sterling silver and hand-me-downs. From hope, pain, love and old age. From oriental rugs and footlockers, station wagons and bicycles, charge cards and index cards, and wicker chairs found on the curb.
And what's after me is from what's before me.
I spotted this poetic exercise in personal history at Amanda's and Flutter's and De's, and finally succumbed. If you want to too, visit the template. Schmutzie's done it too, and is making a link-up. Join in. Come back and tell me where you're from.