Where I am From

So, the girl who finished a novel in 4 months but hasn't managed to write a query letter that she considers worthy of printer ink in the eight months that followed has decided to get busy on her craft.  I'm trying, in my all too Southern way, to put myself out there in the community of writers, just a little bit.  I am also screaming "SHUT UP" to the ever-present voice in my head that whispers, "What makes you think you are interesting enough for anyone to care enough to read?"  I am replacing that voice with my own and it says, "I care enough to write."  To that end, I came upon this writing prompt (check it out at the link below,) and it is the inspiration for post number one:

I am from breath taking quilts stitched from feed sack dresses, from Nehi peach sodas and Mrs. Binge's store.


I am from hours down the road from the place I was born, where my own roots dig past the red clay soil and embed themselves in my mountains.  Mountains that carved out a community rather than the other way around, in a fog blanketed valley that smells of  honey suckle and pipe smoke.  The only place where I actually hear my heart whisper, "Home."


I am from the "courtin' tree" that you had to be able to climb before you could date and the dog on the front porch, and who really owns that old dog anyway?


I am from delivering home cooked meals when words will never help the pain and a stubborn streak.  I am from my Papaw Daugherty and the Clan Douglas and Dilbecks.

I am from a touch of arthritis and a knack for sarcasm.  From, "Don't look at me in that tone of voice!" and "It ain't worth doing, if you don't do it right."

I am from big haired ladies at the Church of God AND the stiff lipped Baptists from the little church up on the mountain.  I cling with both hands to "The Old Rugged Cross," and rest in its shadow, in peace.

I am from Cherokee natives from right in these mountains and Ireland, Scotland and brave Jewish Germans;  I am from chicken and dumplings and cornbread baked in cast iron skillets.

I am from a grandmother who worked all day in shirt factories, raised four kids and then cooked for herself and all the neighbors with grace.  I'm from dust covered men climbing out of the mines. 

I'm from drawers full of Polaroids, school pictures on fridges.  I am razor sharp pocket knives, embroidered handkerchiefs, folk songs and fairy tales, laughter through tears.  I am from these people; I am from these hills.  Their strength is unfaltering, it is holding me up, traveling through me into the roots of my children and they will be stronger still.

I am woefully unable to grab Mama Kat's button despite multiple attempts to follow the directions:( Here is the link to her site:  www.mamakatslosinit.com