I am from moving boxes and the smell of Kiwi shoe polish on combat boots.
I am from a home that was a group of people not a place.
Where the only constant was the Naugahyde sofa my brother teethed on,
And being the new kid.
I am from cross country road trips on Rt. 66 and missing an exit in St. Louis.
The Wigwam motel in Arizona and bathrooms you had to put a dime in the slot to use the toilets.
From mountains and oceans and deserts and verdant forests.
New telephone numbers and addresses and looking at maps to fix myself in space.
From “Daddy do we need gas yet?” and not “are we almost there?”
Where network television offered a routine – I watched Gilligan’s Island in California, Hawaii, Virginia, North Carolina and then as re-runs in every state since then.
I am from “You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”
I am from the places that when folks ask where I’m from, I say everywhere and nowhere.
I am from Taps at sunset and men chanting cadence while running, standing with my hand over my heart at the movie theater when the national anthem was played.
And classmates whose fathers never came home.
Long-stay motels while waiting on housing and using an ironing board to do the worksheets my last teacher gave me to work on until I got back in school again.
I am from 30-day leaves, the ever-present green Stanley thermos in the car of the moment, and crisp uniforms.
And not being able to hang anything on the always white walls.
New churches, new schools, new friends, and all new clothes for the new climate.
I am from 29 addresses before I was 29.
And now I am from a ramshackle barn in a ramshackle state where I’ve lived and loved for 37 years. On a dirt road where home is now a place as well as a group of people. Where I hang things on colorful walls and throw boxes away. Where I’ve had the same phone number for eons and friendships older than a couple of years.
I am from Almost Heaven in the heart of Appalachia and happy to be here.
There’s a Facebook meme going around to the effect of What’s the Dumbest Thing You Ever Did? And the person answers, “Awfully bold of you to think I’ve peaked.”
That would be me. My life is a handstitched colorful quilt of dumb things. From the men I allowed myself to be engaged to, to the cars I bought, to the multitude of shoes I own.
I am not a minimalist in the least. And is my favorite word. It extends to experiences, things, people, you name it. My house is a depository of keepsakes and memory aids.
I remember most of my mistakes fondly. Sheryl Crow wrote a song with the line “You are my favorite mistake.”
Some people think the raiding of my retirement account for two blowout vacations was a mistake. Perhaps. Ask me when I’m 70 and living on social security.
But right now, I don’t think so. I’m dreadfully strapped for cash these days and inflation and gas prices are not helping, but I have no buyer’s remorse. I run through possible solutions to solve the cash crisis, but nothing realistic surfaces. I just need to suck it up and pay off some debt. But there’s a great big world out there full of things I’ve never seen and never done. It’s a siren song.
Light gives us color and shadows – penetrates and reveals.
There are things that hide from the light. Cockroaches of feelings and thoughts that if brought out might destroy us. These stay in the shadows bearing witness but silent. Sometimes rustling so we don’t forget. A haunting of sorts.
The others reveal themselves – prisms and golden archways to the past, to the future. Sunbeams of insight as understanding dawns.
Should we bring those shadow dwellers into the light? Would it destroy them or us? Or are we just repulsed? Is the unexamined life not worth living? Do we need to get the magnifying glass out for all the firings of our synapses? Should every memory be put under a microscope? Backlit and magnified? A hundred times? A thousand?
The cool stone of now, just now, is seductive. A balm for the mind. Some of us actively seek it trying to escape just for a moment, a few minutes, the clamor of thoughts and scuttling of shadow memories. Seeking silence and stillness.’
Now is sanctuary. An absence of worry and fear. Here. Just here. Now. Breathing. The light not penetrating. The slate clean. A return to the womb where we don’t remember, don’t think, where we only have the nurturing of now. The peace of it. Protected from the onslaught of the light and things that scuttle in the shadows.
Connie Kinsey, Writer-in-Residence for Museum of the American Military Family & Learning Center
The book has launched! I am awfully excited. The book is a project of the Museum of the American Military Family & Learning Center. Each chapter is anchored by an essay from one of the museum’s two writers-in-residence — one of them is me. The book is a serious look at gender, religion, race, identity, culture, and ethnicity in the armed forces. Active and retired service personnel, their spouses, and dependents were sent a survey asking about these things. Because the survey was completely anonymous, the open-ended questions generated additional stories from the respondents. A number of respondents agreed to contribute to the book. Thus, we have 276 pages of stories, photos, and quotes. A team of anthropologists provided a statistical analysis of the survey and their report is included as well. Though serious, the book is humorous, heartwarming, thought-provoking, informative, and infuriating — much like the military itself. This book will appeal not just to veterans, but to those who love them and want to understand their experiences. Proceeds support the museum and the writers-in-residence program.
W. Va. Fur and Root 