Jennifer L. Browning

I’m from the blue ridge ladies and the city in their valley and from tracing their arteries in the back of my daddy’s ancient Chrysler or Chevy or Hillman and from the house with expanding walls that sits in a lake bed that never had water except in the basement

I’m from an old farm’s outhouse and the Plaza’s ornate lady’s lounge From impromptu midnight dancing in a big city hotel lobby Fred Astaire-style and foils, and kadas, and scales From Georgette Heyer and Louisa May Alcott, Andre’ Norton and Tolkein. From Star Wars and High Society Ella Fitzgerald, Doris Day, Frank Sinatra, the Beatles, and the Beach Boys

I’m from the smells of a 1970s school cafeteria, fresh baked rolls and cinnamon buns, and The sight of 15 pies on the Thanksgiving sideboard because every man had to be served his favorite pie

I’m from cotton mills and old-time garages, with three-legged stools, a pot-bellied stove, and glass jars holding mysteries both mechanical and confection

I’m from the dreamer and the manager, From grandmothers

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one a southern belle adored by her husband, who crossed her ankles and never wore jeans, the other a smoking, foul-mouthed survivor, mother at 13 and widow at 20 From the elegant and the practical, the handy and the efficient Handlebar mustaches and Santa suits

I’m from the right and wrong side of the tracks the elephant and donkey living in domestic harmony Union and Confederate farmer and prince slave and charlatan indentured servant and grapefruit inventor hidden Cherokee and Scottish clansman

I’m from being the baby and only girl, and holding my mother’s hand as she took her last breath giving my dad my breath while he laid on the floor in the terror and pain of the widow maker’s arms changing of my grandmother’s colostomy bag the unwanted advances of someone I was supposed to trust the cold disapproval for never measuring up to being a lady

I am from the stories handed down and the pictures held sacred the connections across generations and the hope for what will come.

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