I am from mill'd flour, from Crisco and just out of the oven home-made bread, and the magical healing powers of blueberry pie.
I am from the the big farm o'er the hill where cattle graze, and horses race a summer wind. From the brilliant color'd change of seasons where sweetness flows in sun-drenched mighty maple groves the cool night wind has kissed.
I am from the wild ginger, trillium floor'd woods, the cat-tails and pussy-willow banks where water flows cool and clear.
I am from crowded kitchen Christmas Days and laughing, full bellies, from Bea the Great and Herb and Saddler.
I am from the secret world of hayloft swings and pickles thiev'd from cold, dank cellars.
From "you can have more dessert, if you have a slice of bread," and "see you in the morning, I love you."
I am from sweet, soft voiced childlike renditions of Jesus Loves Me. And knowing in my knower that it was true. And what's more, He loves you too. And if we all accepted that, what a wonderful world it could be.
I’m from a Valley clan: simple, strong and sure; a loving legacy passed down with the secret to life really is a proper pot of tea, and the perfect pie crust.
From the time my uncle hid Grandma's dinner buns under the bed, the wondrous sights and sounds of a country fair, and the midnight cow chases through corn fields, with grandpa's old pick up headlights shining the way.
I am from family being more than heirlooms, laid to rest 'neath dusty attic beams. Memories not boxed up to store, but held close to cherish and share. Where a cup of tea on the swing out front, watching mares and foals in pastures green, while sweet scented hay and wood smoke drifts upon the evening air, is the perfect end to a day.
