I am from pickup trucks, from Converse and guitars. I am from the musty books who's old wrinkly paper tell tales of the past. I am from the floating seeds of the cottonwood trees, the sweet prairie grass cut down each year and wound into bales.
I am from campfires and blue eyes, from Durwood and Oliver and Bell. I am from storytellers and stubbornness. From the hurry up, the slowdown and the do not worry. I am from the non-believers and the skeptics; from those who question and ponder the unexplainable.
I am from Stormont-Vail and Triple V, from corn on the cob and chamomile tea. From the bull who's horns hang on the wall as reminder of my granddad's temper, and the cartoons drawn by my papa while away from his young child back home. In the attic there is a dresser filled with tea sets, red tennis shoes, and letters addressed to those long gone, that pull me into the past.