I am from library books, Dial soap, and hand-me-down Toughskin jeans.
I am from the yellow house with brown trim and Astroturf on the front porch.
I am from rocks & driftwood, blackberries, dandelions and rhododendrons.
I am from annual summer camping trips and blue-green eyes, from Ellen and Jim and a David in every generation.
I am from loud voices yelling and growing up tall.
I am from a long line of Presbyterian ministers, the Green Mountain Boys and Elder William Brewster who gave the prayer at the first Thanksgiving.
I am from the Northwoods of Wisconsin, from German immigrants in Pittsburgh and an Ohio steel mill chemist, from skim milk bought in glass bottles at Walt’s Dairy and casseroles to stretch a pound of ground beef.
I am from barefoot summers and the cool rains of the Pacific Northwest, from Disneyland, Yosemite, the Canadian Rockies, family slideshows and boxes in the basement.
And I am from misty, foggy mornings and the pungent smell of the pulp mill.
Spokalulu 
This is lovely, and so fascinating, because I am from very few of those “places.”
Hi Karen! I’m Briget when I comment at Derfwad Manor. I love your I Am From poem and couldn’t resist sending you mine – hope you find this and let me know!
I Am From Poem
I am from
Joan and Hall
from the house with the porch above the yard
above the tender pink
of the cherry trees in the park beyond
from clean your room every Saturday
and it’s your job to set the table
I am from
Uptucked, strait-laced
Pledge-signing Presbyterians
I am from
the hard drinking, hard playing
restless rootless younger son
who missed the boat
and ended in Australia.
I am from
sit up straight
from a lady doesn’t smoke on the street
from manners, low voices
and never letting your feelings show
from always having my nose in a book
and a knowing beyond my years because
of the things I read
I am from sixteen in 1968
From civil strife
From a changing world
From questions my parents could not answer
From society shoes that never fit
and invitations to Junior League
in the back pocket of my hippie jeans.
I am from confusion and revision
from searching in all the wrong places
for the truth that was poised on my shoulder
I am from speech and silence
from discipline and excess
from learning the hard way
Every time.