Where I’m from, everyone knows everybody and nothing’s a secret.
You can’t get away with anything without your mom finding out, or your dad. It was worse if it was your dad.
Where I’m from, the north-south roads were numbered.
The east-west roads were lettered.
Between stop signs a country mile was easy to calculate, and when you said you were going around the block, well that was four country miles put together. No matter where you found yourself, you could look at the road sign, and know which way was home.
Where I’m from, there were no speed limit signs. There was just one speed: slow. The roads were so narrow, you wouldn’t dare pass the farmer in front of you. So, you’d slow down too. You see, where I’m from, the farmer had to drive past by his own field to check on things. And while he was out, he’d drive by his neighbor’s field to size it up.
Where I’m from, those slow drivers would always wave. Remember, everyone knows everybody, and you knew what they were driving too. It was typically a rusty farm truck. If there was a different car in your neighborhood you’d never seen before, you’d wave at them too. Likely some city folk who’d gotten off the beaten path, but we were friendly to them too.
Where I’m from, the language was weather, moisture and yield. All crop-related terms. At night, you’d hear the gentle purr of grain bins in the distance drying their grain…moisture was too high. Where I’m from, you’d see the flashes of heat lightning on a sultry summer’s night. You’d run around catching fireflies and put them in jars. You’d toss some twigs and grass in the jar with it, supposing they’d enjoy the habitat a bit more. You’d rush to show your mom what you caught. She’d smile and explain how cool it was that God created them.
Where I’m from, you put your neighbor above yourself. My grandpa was diagnosed with cancer one harvest season. I was too young to be much help, and overnight, my dad became a one man show. He drove to the field the next day, only to find our neighbors all there, ready to help. We harvested the fields in record time. Too weak to do much, Grandpa watched out the window. A stoic and strong man…with tears in his eyes.
Where I’m from, you put in an honest day’s work, and slept well at night because of it.
Crops in? No time to rest, need to cultivate the weeds.
Growing season? No time to rest, prepare the machinery for harvest.
Harvest done? No time to rest, clean the equipment, put it away, count your blessings, plan for next year.
Where I’m from, you rose to shake a man’s hand. You stood when a lady entered the room. You looked a person in the eye. You held the door open for the next person, no matter their race or religion.
Where I’m from, you went to church on Sunday. The honor system was your guide. Integrity was your North Star. The Golden Rule was your life.
Where I’m from, you treated others with dignity and if you didn’t receive it in return, you had no use for them. If you said you would do it, you did…your word was your bond. ‘No’ was a complete sentence. Arriving early was on time, arriving on time was late. You respected others, and yourself.
Where I’m from, you found meaning in the toil, and significance in the storm. You stood on your own 2 feet. Nobody owed you nothing. You were self-made. We ate what we killed. If a drought came, we ate less, but we were never hungry.
Where I’m from… my roots, my childhood, my life. It’s all what’s made me who I am today. It’s not flashy. Not the things that movies are made of. Just a calm, peaceful, hardworking existence.
It’s who I am today.
It’s where I’m from.
