We all come from somewhere

I am from leaping

into piles of papery leaves

with no concern

for what might lurk.

I am from wandering

in thickety-woods

with salt in my hand

and cider on my tongue--wary of neighborhood ghosts.

I am from icicles

long as swords

and miniature worlds

reflected.

I am from licking thick

maple syrup drizzled

on powdery-pure

fresh snow.

I am from reading

about lost ponies

and making a fence

for a plastic herd.

I am from solemn pledges,

earning badges.

eating s'mores

by campfire.

I am from catching

pink salamanders alone at the creek

and chasing fireflies, who might be fairies,

on summer nights.

I am from skunk weed,

pond water, hanging barns,

rotting porches and

cardinals bright as blood.

I am from girls who

leave others behind

and boys who whisper

forbidden truths.

I am from helping

measure gunpowder into

paper rolls in the secret

stillness of his basement.

I am emerging from innocence but I don't know it yet.

This is a writing prompt used as an exercise, which began with a poem, "Where I'm From" by George Ella Lyon. I got the idea of trying this from author Marilyn Donahue whose new blog, Lines in Time, is full of tips for richer writing.

I chose to recall a two-year-period of my childhood spent in rural Ohio. You can pick anything, any place and mine it.

Finding treasure

The emotional power held within temporal objects is sometimes shadowy. I keep a handful of china pieces, handpainted by my paternal grandmother, because she made them. But yesterday, I felt a deeper, visceral pull.

In my blog-hopping, I visited Elizabeth Wix's About New York and discovered a feast for the eyes. She featured a post on plates, of all things, and linked to numerous other blogs in a round-up. The beauty or memories to be found in our cupboards is astounding.

Looking at my grandmother's pieces, I recalled the care she took with her home and garden--always aesthetically pleasing and immaculate. She wanted beauty and she made it--mostly by hard work.

My other grandmother lived in reduced circumstances, many of her years were in a rented attic apartment in Brooklyn. She worked hard, too, caring for mothers and newborns. She sewed outfits for the dolls my paternal grandmother bought for me. And she also sold, on the side, little dustcloths she made by stitching a colorful fabric hand on a plain cloth so you could slip your hand into it. Sweet, but not a money-maker. I have her china custard cups from Bavaria and the bright Nippon china she acquired, and I realize how precious these few things were.

Through these objects belonging to my grandmothers, I connect with memories of childhood, which may shimmer out-of-focus, but can be quite specific in detail. For instance, I can remember the security and love I felt during car rides on frosty winter days, snuggled up against my grandmother's beaver coat, my small hand rubbing the fur back-and-forth to change the sheen.

Not only did Elizabeth get me to look with fresh eyes at my china, her blog, which is filled with fabulous photographs, catapulted me back to my younger days in New York. My entire family comes from there, but I spent most of my life in other places. Her photographs of cafes, brownstones, kids on field trips, flower markets and people's feet on the subway were like coming home. New York, despite its immense size, can be very much a village.

Look around. Are there any objects you haven't thought of for awhile that fill you with memories and emotion? I'd love to hear about them.

Demitasse

My wild Scottish hairdresser and I were discussing coffee -- the yearning and need thereof -- when I recalled my earliest coffee experience. My family lived in New York, and I was so little I crawled upstairs to another apartment to visit the elderly woman from somewhere in East Europe or the Middle East. Unfortunately, I don't remember that detail. She didn't speak English and I barely did either at that age, so we were fine companions. She served me coffee, black and thick, probably boiled. That was our occasional tea party. Sometimes, I tried to reach the sugar or butter or some pretty trinket on her cloth-covered kitchen table. I can still feel her hands, grasping my small body in toddler overalls and putting it back in the chair. I believe the coffee must have imprinted in my cells, because I still love it dark and strong, and I need it like a a sprout needs water.