Where I'm From...

From whence do I come?

From silver, glistening winter lands, where sleet turns dull, winter trees to a crystal forest, blazing in the sun, a pristine, prismatic palace that I could call my home, if I were hibernating. I'm from a land surrounded by vast waters, where waves crash, but taste sweetly, where ships of titanic proportions have gone with their crews to a watery grave, glimpsed only by the denizens of the deep.

But where am I from?

From cathedral peaks made by the hand of no man, where I walked among the giants of all forest-life, and felt lilliputian and out of me. I am from deep moss, trees growing out of broken off treetops, and hidden waterfalls, from the song of the hermit thrush off in the woods somewhere, and cold rain running down the back of my neck. I come from red earth, Mars-like, but full of dry life, where each swing of my hoedad brought a bit more pain and damage to my aching wrists.

But still, from where do I hail?

From the foreign sounds of little brown children, who look not a bit like me, where Conejo and Beto exchange blows over the little niña named Maria Elena who has such a pretty face. Where Elenorilda Alvarado Acosta wears her funny baseball cap sideways and calls her sneakers “TenixPanam”. Where I go to Mass and Padre Mauricio Roy does the whole thing in Spanish but you'd think it was French. He's from Quebec.  I'm from Organ pipe cactus, and flipping over hot, dry rocks in the blazing Sonoran sun to see if I could find any scorpions underneath. I think scorpions are cool!

I'm from peach groves that left my neck red and itching, but my face sticky from eating so many, and my belly full, where Eric nearly got bitten by a Diamondback Rattlesnake, which later that evening got eaten for dinner. Randy gave the rattle to some Mexican guy. I was ticked off.

I'm from Chiapas, Mexico, and fishing for shrimp in a tipsy, shallow dugout canoe at 2 in the morning, while caimans, and rather large crocodiles swim past in the dark, only their eyes visible as we shined flashlights at them. Mamá cooked us shrimp with eggs and tortillas for breakfast in the morning. I'm from washing my face in the cistern and seeing tilapia swimming by inches below.

I'm from Oaxaca, Palmas Largas, where the miracles happened, many were saved, and the beginnings of a revival broke out before my very eyes, where the old Zapoteco with the withered arm and no teeth pleaded with me to heal him and I did.  I'm from swimming in the river, under and around the boulders looking for the elusive green shrimp that live there in fear of the even more elusive, and preditory Chacal shrimps, which I ate with gusto.

I'm from the sound of metal against metal as the wedge is driven deeper into the round of ash, and oak wood with each successive blow of the sledgehammer.  I'm from Morgan pestering the dogs till they turned on him with a growl, but did no harm.  I'm from GregoriOso driving his Bobcat, and backbreaking work under the hot, Ohio sun.

I'm also from the sound of passing autos, the hum of computer fans, logo-creation for the guy in Portland, Oregon, and sucking down bitter, black coffee.

God help me. That's where I'm from.

Copyright 2010 Frank J. McAvinchey