Years ago, I took on a writing challenge to create a poem from a template with the resulting work informing readers about myself and my family history. This is the result, a poem I had the privilege of reading at my father’s funeral. I regret he never had the opportunity to read it before he passed away. But then, Dad also knew where I was from.
Where are you from?
Heritage
I am from buttered bread
sometimes with Welch’s jam.
I am from the hand pump on the back porch
that spewed out ice-cold water
and you weren’t really thirsty
but you had to take
your Saturday night bath.
I am from the lily of the valley
growing under the lilac bushes,
the scent sucked in just before
you gave them to Mama
who loved them more than you.
I am from Sunday morning nip and tuck.
Dawdling ‘round from Uncle Bud,
cousin Toad and his counterpart, the Frog.
I am from the way we tease and laugh out loud.
From “Stop that squirming”
and “Bow your head.”
I am from a Bible Mama plum wore out.
From Daddy’s faithful Christmas and Easter Sabbaths.
I’m from the middle of a little bitty place
and a rich Christian heritage
across the Rhine River in Germany.
From fried chicken. And apple pie
in a bowl with milk poured on.
From the toddler who drank fuel oil
putting scare into us all;
a vision of stomach pumps not quite real.
From the backyard wedding of my sister
and a reception in the woods where we
ate picnic style licking barbecue from our fingers.
I am from the tattered black pages of an album
Dad pulls out on his little whims.
Repeating names I’ve heard a thousand times
but won’t remember, he tells me I am from
these folks of buttered bread, hand pumps,
laugh out loud, and worn out Bibles.
copyright by Paula Geister 2005
I love this! What a great tribute!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks, Nathan. My siblings were able to connect with all of it too. We have these shared memories and I’ll wager they have some of their own too.
LikeLike
That was a joy to read. Thanks!
LikeLike