I am from gasoline, from Texaco and Havolin oil.
I am from a beautiful ranch house on the side of the road, rambling, tidy, smelling of home-cooked food.
I am from the Rhodedendron, Mountain Laurel, and Pines. I am from Fiddle ferns, clover and mountain ridges.
I am from Grandpa’s quiet prayers and bluegrass and gospel, from Nove and Dormal and Great-grandpa Naylor.
I am from the stubborn and musical.
From "If you’re going to be late, don’t go at all" and "If you’re going to do it, do it right."
I am from Baptist revivals, church sings and homecomings in the parking lot with tables of fried chicken and jello salad.
I'm from Almost Heaven West Virginia, Mississippi Mud Pie and Catfish on Christmas Eve.
From the fish Grandpa kept in his pond, who came when he called them, the walks to the pond to let his granddaughter feed them bread, and the snack cakes meant for Grandpa’s workbucket from a metal bread box if I were careful not to "ask" for one in just the right way.
I am from big city cousins who handed down their clothes and their love, black and white photos of homecomings where most of the men were holding guitars, from honey bees who loved my great grandpa and led him home when he got lost, from preacher uncles to not-so-preacherly uncles all lined up in the back row of a photo smiling together, Fayetteville, Lizemores, Bentree and Clay. Places from which I could hardly wait to get away. Places to which I can hardly wait to return.