2008. The year Sam will turn 5. When I search my memory bank for my earliest solid memories—for more than the nickles and dimes of mere impression—I find that the deposits begin at five. My kindergarden classes, the playground near our apartment, our summer vacations with family, playing with my baby sister, visiting my grandparents. For Christmas, I wrote a poem for my mom & dad that calls on the sweetest memories of my youth to describe where I'm from.
It occured to me that if Sam were to do the same thing 35 years from now, he might reach back to these days—just barely—to describe where he's from. That the time we spend with him now is more than an intangible investment in his character; we're paying into Sam's memory bank. We're already sketching out the special events in the year to come, but I know very well that the enduring memories of childhood are tied up in the routines of the day, the landscapes of play, and all the jokes and lessons and traditions that add up somehow to the feeling of home. Though we get bogged down sometimes in the daily grind, we try our best to be aware of this fact. If we do it right, Sam will (as I do) look back with warm fondness on rich childhood memories, have a solid sense of who he is, and feel lucky to have grown up in this family.
Where I'm From
I am from Red Rose tea figurines, from Jell-O parfaits and from skipping double dutch till the street lights come on (two-four, shut the door, run out).
I am from the soft slope to the Old Woolen Mill, from the shadow of the Golden Ears, from the snowy expanse of the Red River Valley. I am from Fleetwood Mac on Saturday mornings, from home-baked fruit drop cookies in a blue plastic lunchkit, from arena hot chocolate after Sunday public skating.
I am from the hills and trails of Caledon, from the cedar-lined shores of Simcoe, and from high atop the Niagara escarpment where the porch swing carries me over sails and seagulls, white flecks on blue. I am from Quin-Mo-Lac and couldn’t be prouder: if you can’t hear me now, I’ll shout a little louder…
I am from Santa hats and carols and new pajamas on Christmas Eve, from family gin rummy after sundown in the campground, from Daszko and O’Driscoll, whose gentle hearts and smiles shine through in my son’s.
I am from the same voice as my Sisty Uglers, from the “dull roar” of exuberant conversation, from the punna-bunna and the salad balls and I always pay on a Tuesday, so put that away. I am from laughter.
From be the best blade of grass on the hill, and from you can’t be everything to everyone. I am from The Golden Rule. From share and be nice, from please and thank you. From the power of the butterfly’s wings and what goes around comes around.
I am from Whitevale and White Russia and the White Cliffs of Dover, from hand-pinched perogies at Easter and fluffy Yorkshire pudding served with Sunday roast beef. From two kinds of pie on Nan’s counter, always.
I am from the teenaged drummer who picked out the prettiest girl at the dance and fell in love because she was also smart and funny and kind. From the Key to Bala, from the Florida Keys.
I am from dozens of dining rooms, where we’ve gathered to share stories and laughter, to tease playfully, to raise a glass in celebration, to live and relive our family history.
I am from love.
