Thursday, November 10, 2011

Where I'm From

I am from sea-washed sandy soil, from Corn Flakes and fresh, sweet raspberries.

I am from a tiny, crowded, but happy, run down cottage.

I am from the humble yet fragrant mayflowers that grow under the dry leaves along dirt roads in second growth woods, a mix of crow pine and red oak.

I am from Sunday dinners followed by a family drive in the car, and generosity, from Clan Hunter, Clan Anderson, Bearse and Buck and Frost and people who didn’t feel the need for last names.

I am from the old school recyclers who lived in a world of make-do and those who never held back when someone needed something.

From grandparent’s loving teachings, ripe with metaphors and hand-me-down traditions, from those who wove amazing stories out of thin air.

I am from meek Unitarian Universalists, from parishioners of the Church of Scotland, and before them from those who worshiped in a church whose members were of all nations of beings: winged and four-legged, those that swim, and those who crawl, those with roots that hold them still, and the elder stones who have watched since the beginning of time.

I'm from Cape Cod, fresh caught fish, thick and creamy clam chowdah, and homemade oatmeal bread.

From the Wampanoag Tribe that stood on the wintry shore watching the foreign ships approach, and the tired Pilgrims who left everything familiar and ventured forth with hope for a second chance.

I am from the newer end of the branches of the family tree with leaf sets of my own who have their own tiny buds. I am from stories told and stories woven, from names in archives of towns settled, carved on weather worn slate headstones on hills overlooking the cold Atlantic, names included in genealogies of poets and presidents, among those names were sachems, spiritual leaders, those falsely accused of witchcraft, craftspeople, sea captains, warriors, fishermen, scrimshanders, carpenters, strong women, farmers, and those destined to wander.

Our common histories are woven in a richly colored shawl of tradition that is mine to continue weaving and then pass down, a strand at a time in stories to eager ears caught up in the magic of our seaside heritage.

Brenda 2011

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