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I am from five sets of delicate, pre-war fine china.
From Bounty paper towels and Dawn dish soap.
I am from Sir Richard’s kingdom,
where beds are made with hospital corners,
junky old cars line the driveway, and
the mouth-watering smell of gourmet cooking lingers.
I am from rhubarb and African violets that manifest bitter and beautiful, tart and sweet, ordinary and exotic.
I’m from “we do it ourselves,” and “you’re doing it wrong.”
From he, the bigger-than-life narcissist, and her, warning “stay out of his way.”
I’m from the “you can be bum as long as you’re an educated bum,” and “don’t do anything that would make me look bad.”
I’m from liberal educators who got themselves kicked out of church for suggesting sex education be included in Sunday School curriculum.
I am from the Midwest by way of three thrifty, hardworking, self-reliant British Islanders and one German.
From vanilla ice cream and fresh out-of-the-oven homemade sourdough bread.
I’m from an orphan I never knew, and the overseas voyage of a single young girl with a platter on her lap—on her way to becoming a maid.
And from the premature death of my mother to pancreatic cancer.
In dusty old boxes at Wheeler Lake and plastic bins in my attic that have moved to every house I have lived, are the family photos and mementos that weren’t destroyed years ago in a basement flood.
It took me thirty-five years to let go of that china, now choosing instead to hold sacred the gifts of wisdom, resilience and love of the strong women who came before me.
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