It seems everyone is searching for their roots. There are DNA tests, TV shows in search of ancestors, ancestry records, and family trees. We want to know who we are and where we’re from. Everyone seems to be searching for that compass to know where we’re going.

I recently attended a poetry workshop conducted by Kay Vetter. Her purpose was to help the attendees write their family histories in poetry. I thought, poetry and family history in the same sentence? It was really quite fun and easy. To get the juices flowing Mrs. Vetter read a poem by George Ella Lyon entitled “Where I’m From”. Then we made a twelve item list of things from our past modeled from Ms. Lyon’s poem. Next, we were given a fill in the blank anaphora poem. Anaphora poetry begins lines with the same phrase to help give it rhythm. The lines began “I am from _______ from ________.  Using our lists we filled in the blanks to create our family history poems.

After we finished our poems Mrs. Vetter suggested we frame our poems and give them to our children. Another idea was to make a calendar with family pictures dividing the poem up throughout the year. I thought why not a poem for each season or month. I had way too many memories for just one poem.

This poetry session reminded me of the first time I discovered the joy of writing. I was assigned to use my favorite children’s book as a mentor text and attempt to write like the author. I chose When I Was Young In the Mountains by Cynthia Rylant. She too used repeating phrases at the beginnings of lines. She wrote about her childhood memories. She used illustrations instead of photographs but they were meaningful to the time period.

Here’s my attempt at “Where I’m From.” I know you can write your own poem for your children and grandchildren. Maybe they can write some of their memories of you.

Where I’m From

I’m from an old coal heater and a gourd dipper in the water bucket

from quilts and a treadle sewing machine.

I’m from pantry shelves lined with apple jelly, chow chow, and homemade pickles

from rain and sleet pelting on an old tin roof.

I am from a chinaberry tree whose limbs dandled children and hid us behind her leaf skirts.

I am from tomahawk doorstops and found arrowheads,

From Wofford and Prince, Cherokees and mountaineers.

I am from hard-headed and head-strong

 from “by the Bible, chapter and verse.” 

I am from lake baptisms and flowing water.

from Daddy’s song “I’m a Child of the King.”

I am from potato salad and coconut cake

from a panther shot from a cabin roof,

from ghosts in a mountain creek. 

From Daniel Boone pop gun muskets, pocket knives, 

and home-made bows and arrows. 

I am moments of baying hounds, maddog tales

and evening prayers by lamplight.

I am from a grandmother’s prayers – a hundred years ago. 

Blessings, Gail Cartee