I am from canning jars, Palmolive dish soap and bread and butter for every meal.
I am from the two-story farmhouse, peeling white paint, many-roomed, smell the biscuits baking for morning breakfast.
I am from the wheat growing in the fields, the sunflowers in the ditches and the endless expanse of sky; elm trees, my mother’s daffodils and dandelions.
I am from long summer driving vacations and orneriness, from Grandpa Sam and a slew of Millions; from images captured on film and propriety, from my mother and Grandmother Skaggs.
I am from the loyal, and the harshest critics.
From “patience is a virtue” and “do unto others”.
I am from “God helps those who help themselves” and “actions are louder than words”. Here we belong. Here we are known. Here we will always be welcomed.
I'm from the Kansas prairie and those good German Lutherans, deviled eggs and homemade jam.
From the grandfather who traveled cross country at the age of three in covered wagon, whose mother left his father, whose grandmother was a Native American named Lucy.
I am from scores of carefully preserved scrapbooks, details complete in my mother’s handwriting, sitting on shelves where she no longer adds to their pages, but treasured still by children and grandchildren.