I Am From
I Am From
by Mitzi Plummer Johnson
I am from beach chairs.
From Coppertone and El’s shrimpburgers.
I am from the Crystal Coast
salty, sticky, the squawk of seagulls with French fries in view.
I am from sand spurs,
no match for bare soles toughened by summer sand.
I'm from Scrabble games with Zs on triple letter scores,
and used paperbacks on pine boards and cinder blocks -
the decorative ones for inside use.
From Puppy Creek Plummers and Sandhills Strothers,
Tall tales and sweet tea under the pines at Parker Methodist Church,
Guiding Light at 3 p.m. on CBS.
From “Hey, Sugar!” and, “Put the food away in small dishes.”
I'm from Methodists who sing, Quakers who don’t, and Baptists who know their Bibles.
I'm from Raeford folk, land of the Scots who left behind porridge and pies for Watergate salad and watermelon. Wise move if you ask me.
From PaPa Ralph who rode into town, asleep, on the running board of the family’s Model T,
and John who flew Hueys in Vietnam, awake, I presume.
From Mrs. Brenda, teacher of Sunday School, nurse of broken bodies, and the country’s largest consumer of Gladware.
Sick day soup has to be delivered in something.
Above the Book of Knowledge at Mama’s house are black and white photos developed in the dark room of the weekly newspaper, of Mitzi, Todd, and Louis doing small-town 70s things.
A tender, too-brief time of intertwined lives before we spread out to make our mark.
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