writing prompt

Where I’m From

/ wvfurandroot / 8 Comments
Photo by Morten Andreassen on Unsplash
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.
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Is it a mistake if you have no regrets?

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            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.”

Photo by Jeremy Morris on Unsplash

            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.

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Letter to My 82-Year-Old Self

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Photo by Josh Wedgwood on Unsplash

Dear Older Me,

I’m a little bit afraid of you.  And for you. 

I have not taken particularly good care of our body.  I’ve fed our mind and fostered our creativity all the while allowing us to adventure.  That I’ve done those things should give you rich memories to look back on.  It’s been quite a ride.  But our body is on a downhill descent that feels a bit as if we’re riding strong currents leading to a waterfall.  Eventually, we are going to go over the falls to a different ride.  Perhaps one that is a peaceful glide through the water; or perhaps another wild ride like the last 62 years. 

I’m not even going to hazard a guess as to what the next twenty years might hold. The last twenty have been surprising and the twenty before that even more so.

I hope we stay intact.  That our voice remains a guide assuring that this too shall pass when in the rough waters and laughing in delight at the scenery at the other times. I do wonder if this last transition will turn us into more spectator than participant in life.  Will we begin to make our world smaller?  Turn inward?

I’m already a constant examiner of my life – the one I’m living now, the one I lived, and the one I’m creating.  I can’t imagine becoming even more introspective, but perhaps. It’s exhausting to even think about the possibility.

Possibility.  There’s the rub.  I’ve been told that what is possible reduces itself a bit year by year until there is nothing but the inevitable.  Dear God, I hope not.

I’ve gotten through life with hope for and anticipation of good things to come. 

I’m making peace with the idea that my body is beginning to impose limitations.  I am stiff and old injuries haunt me.  

I can’t sprawl in the grass and look for animals in the clouds any longer.  I would never be able to get up.  My hearing is fading which is disastrous when one is almost wholly auditory.  I experience the world through sound and words and this inner voice in our head that is sometimes akin to talk radio. 

I have no trouble hearing our voice, but it is getting harder to eavesdrop on strangers and invent stories about their life, their hopes, and their dreams.

I think it is a given our inner voice will remain at least until the end and maybe onto the next life.  We’ve become friends. The insecure youth that we were has developed some moxie.

Let’s keep that.  Shall we?  We fought hard for it.  To get there.  To develop the courage to fail. It takes a lot of pressure off knowing we don’t have to be perfect; We just have to do the best we can under our present limitations.

Let’s go out in grace and style.  Observing, yes, but participating in the dance.  We weren’t meant to be a wallflower. 

Let’s make a pact, shall we?

Love, Connie

A Letter to My Younger Self

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Dear Connie Lynn,

It’s me.  Your inner voice writing to you from fifty years into the future. 

You may want to know that much to your relief your family will quit calling you Connie Lynn in favor of Connie.  Oh, there will be the occasional family reunion where it will crop up, but just like at school, you will be known as Connie.  You never will have a proper nickname, but there will be boys and men who call you baby, sweetheart, and lover.

But I’m not writing to spoil the future for you by revealing too much detail.  I’m not going to give you any advice either – well not much.  I will tell you that you will live to be at least 62 and when you look back at your life, you will mostly smile.

I will tell you to quit worrying so much about your body.  At this age, you will look back and marvel at your insecurities.  You will be astonished by old photographs that show a girl, a woman, who is attractive and poised and yet still a bit goofy.  You will develop hips that sway when you walk.  Eventually, there will be cleavage, but that phenomenon will surprise you and I don’t want to ruin it. Some will describe you as tall and striking.  Your best friend in your 40s will tell you that while not conventionally beautiful, you are arresting.

Quit worrying about it.  Luxuriate in your body’s suppleness and flexibility. Revel in your youth.  Dance, dance, dance.

Your mind, however, will be your greatest asset.  You’ve inherited your father’s intelligence and have your own innate curiosity that will never leave you.  You will enjoy new and different all your life, while still savoring the known and comfortable.

There will be times of great sorrow, upheaval, and trials.  Your spirit will be heavy, but you also inherited your mother’s optimism and know at the cellular level that this too shall pass.

“This too shall pass” will be your life’s slogan.  You will learn, often the hard way, that nothing is permanent except this—your inner voice.  Treat me well and pay attention.  I will alert you to situations and people that are toxic to you.  Listen to me.  It will make all the difference.

I know.  I said no advice.

I will always be with you.  Your body will begin the unstoppable descent into frailty and disease.  You will look back fondly on all the things you could do with it.  Me, this inner voice, will mature until about the age of 25 when it stabilizes.  For the rest of your life, you will feel 25 until you look in the mirror.  

The brain stays supple and elastic far longer than the body, but it too starts to deteriorate.  It might surprise you to know that you will develop an inability to remember things and small details.  You will carry pen and paper everywhere to write things down.  Your ability to just file it away in your head somewhere for instant recall ends. 

You will say, “I used to have a good brain” and it will be true.

Your life will be rewarding and heartbreaking, enjoyable and miserable, steeped in pleasure, and fraught with pain.  You will nonetheless look back on it fondly.

Love yourself, dear one.  It’s going to be the ride of your lifetime. And at 62 you will smile and write this letter.

Love, Me