I am from chalk drawings on the driveway, from She-Ra masks and picking up pinecones for pennies.
I am from rolling fields of corn and soybeans, from a quiet neighborhood in a small town there the high school mascot is painted on the water tower.
I am from the dogwoods in the forest and the honeysuckle hedges around our backyard.
I am from Sunday roasts at Grandma’s house and family tailgates at Tiger football games; from Cowherd, Eden, Skelton, and Stever.
I am from the smart, reserved, and — yeah — the bossy. From We aren’t quitters and I’m proud of you.
I am from feltboard Sunday School lessons and youth group mission trips. From Praise God from whom all blessings flow and meeting Jesus at a camp in the Colorado Rockies.
I’m from the green hills and black dirt of northern Missouri, but with Ozarks roots. I am from parmesan chicken, twice-baked potatoes, and carrot cake with cream cheese frosting.
I am from the smell of old books and fresh copy paper in my dad’s law office, and “lugging the logo” of Apple computer when it still had rainbow stripes.
I am from running races at family reunions, playing basketball after Thanksgiving dinner, and avoiding cow pies on walks across my grandparents’ farmland.
I’m from tall navy blue silos and painted ranch gates, lettered with my family names.
I am from photos proudly displayed on the piano, from quilts stitched with care, from stories recounted around the dinner table, and wisdom passed down from my parents’ parents.
Where are you from?