Where we’re from

I’m from Michigan, but my boys are not.
They are from Washington.

I’m from suburban Detroit, and
They’re from suburban Seattle.

I’m from lakes of every size: small ponds and twinkly blue neighborhood lakes and Great Lakes that stretch farther than the eye can see.
They’re from lakes, too, but also rivers and the Sound and the Pacific Ocean that stretches even farther.

I’m from hills and plains and leaves that turn crimson and gold.
They’re from the Cascade foothills and evergreen trees and mountains both east and west.

I’m from cold, snowy winters. From ice scrapers and moonboots and sledding down hills most of January.
They’re from rainy, mild winters. From rain jackets and vests and only one snow day a year, if you’re lucky, but they are not from carrying umbrellas, oh no.

I’m from hot, humid summers. From sticky red and purple popsicles and air conditioning is the only way you can sleep all July.
They’re from dry, perfect summers. From hiking boots and open windows that let the night air nudge away what precious little heat the day held.

I’m from driving up north on I-75 to Grandpa’s cabin, and giggling with cousins in the loft, and early morning coffee cake with the Aunt Hill.
They’re from heading up north on I-5 to Auntie’s house in B.C., and racing around with cousins in the yard, and early morning pancakes.

I’m from apple-picking every fall; from hay rides and cider in jugs and doughnuts and baskets filled with red and green and yellow.
They’re from pumpkin-picking, big ones and small ones; from cider sippers and hot doughnuts that sting your fingers as you impatiently eat them anyway.

I’m from the place where cars are imagined, built, and driven everywhere.
They’re from the land where planes are made and flown all over the world.

I’m from tornado drills and thunderstorms and lightning crackling through the summer sky.
They’re from earthquake drills and visible volcanos and containers of ash from Mt. St. Helens.

I’m from cheering for the Pistons, the Tigers, the Red Wings, and yes, even the Lions and especially on Thanksgiving.
They are from the Seahawks, Mariners, Sounders, and Canucks.

I’m from Michael Jackson and Madonna and Motown.
They’re from the Beatles and Cake and Recess Monkey.

I’m from a house of three females and one male. From doll orphanages and an interior decorating company and dancing to my sister’s choreography, but also race cars and four-square.
They’re from three males and one female. From train tables and fire trucks and MegaBlocks, but also the doll family and Mama’s pink lipgloss.

I’m from dogs who greet you with kisses and whole-body happy and “let’s play!”
They’re from cats who silently wrap themselves around your legs for a pet if they’re in the mood and you’re being quiet enough.

I’m from huge family gatherings for holidays and birthdays and any days that just seemed like they wanted to be celebrated.
They’re from five-hour flights twice a year to see relatives that have been dying to kiss their cheeks and hug them tightly, but know how to be patient as the boys blink and wonder and finally warm up.

And yet…

We’re all from laughing loudly and singing in the car and dancing around the living room.

We’re all from “family comes first” and “have you lost your mind?” and “you don’t have to sleep, but at least be quiet and read.”

We’re all from soft, fuzzy bathrobes and rocking chairs and whispered “I love you”s against sleepy heads.

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I came late to the “Where I’m From” party and I didn’t follow the template precisely, but you can read other amazing essays if you click here.