Today’s guest poem is from Theresa Anderson. Theresa isn’t from Appalachia, however a lot of what she describes fits Appalachia perfectly.
I’m From Wyoming Wind written by Theresa Anderson
I am from knitting needles, Gram’s crystal dishes, Mom’s one carnival glass vase, and raisin cream pie.
I am from the log house on open prairie, from buttered popcorn in a dishpan with card games round the kitchen table. I am from sagebrush and spiderwort, buffalo grass, and prickly pear.
I am from working hard and dancing in the living room; from Grama Gussie and Cousin Cad and the Mack motto of do it yourself and do it right.
I am from dry humor and unconditional honesty. From a friend is a friend no matter what. I’m from use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.
I am from Methodists and circuit preachers, from wise women and dirt scratch farmers.
I’m from windy Wyoming plains and German-Cherokee Missiourians, from Scotch-Irish New Yorkers, from preachers and moonshiners, from eating ginger snaps and stodge.
I’m from the blind plow horse and the raccoon in the kitchen, the hunting dogs and the dachshunds Grandpa Jackson always named Queenie.
I am from don’t matter if you’re a woman, carry your weight like a man; from measure twice and cut once, and from kneading bread dough in the wee hours so the house would cool before the heat of the day.
I’m from memories of tarpaper shacks and catfish fried with green tomatoes on Missouri river banks and farms lost to government camp in New York State. I am from nights on end waiting in hospital hallways while daddy’s lungs fought the Wyoming winters and from laughter as we played together when he was well.
I am from black and white photos of family long gone but not forgotten, from Gram’s butterfly pin and Mom’s orange earrings, from playing croquet in the backyard and from laughing with neighbors around the kitchen table.
I’m from scraps of paper covered in notes of Mom’s heritage spoken of only once. I’m from kicking frozen cow pies and from hot water bottles on cold winter nights, from watching thunderstorms on the porch with my dad and my mother singing lullabies.
I am from people so rich in love that money never really mattered.
Theresa Anderson
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I hope you enjoyed Theresa’s poem as much as I did! My favorite line is the last one: I am from people so rich in love that money never really mattered.
Tipper
Wonderful!!!
God bless.
RB
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I love this poem and it feels familiar as my brother in law was from South Dakota and I heard the stories of his grandparents who settled out west. All of us have those wonderful ancestors who worked hard and played when they could, no matter where we come from. I have enjoyed all the stories written in these poems. I have my own that I hope to publish in a book before too long.
Hi all, stodge is called stodge according to my Mom and Gram because you “stodge it all together.” LOL you take some onions and potatoes, chop in small pieces and put in hot oil in a cast iron skillet. Cook until the onions and potatoes are done, then add cubed up bread and if needed a bit more oil, cook a bit, then add beaten eggs and pour over top, still and cook like scrambled eggs. If you were out of something, you either substituted, or just made it without. Still good. The raisin cream pie was supposed to get edited before I sent, it’s actually sour cream raisin pie. Sometimes known as funeral pie as it held up well for funerals and tastes wonderful. I’ll dig Gram’s recipe out if anyone wants it. She was a pie cook at a restaurant back when the cooks used their own recipes and didn’t leave them behind when they moved on or retired. Mom didn’t like raisins because of the texture, but she liked the pie too and would just pick the raisins out. Thank you all for your kind words. Ferne, whereabouts in Oregon? That’s where I live too, in Aumsville.
Tipper,
From reading Threasa’s poem, one
would never know she’s not from
Appalachia. She and her family come
from Good Stock and the things she
talks about rekindle those feelings
that pull on your heartstrings.
I loved Threasa’s poem, of all her
humble honesty and experience…Ken
I enjoyed this so much–revived my memory of our dishpan full of popcorn. It was made in a long handled skillet made of metal that was black with age. Only about 6-8 inch so several batches had to be popped to fill up the dishpan. I was the official corn popper. We would have been disappointed for sure to get the amount that’s in a microwave bag!
I have loved all the life stories written as poems, but Theresa’s really touched my soul. I lead a family history writing group out here in Oregon. Tomorrow, I’ll share her story with everyone, in hopes of motivating people to write their own poems. Thanks for sharing all the wonderful life histories, Tipper, including your own!
Can we call Theresa an Appalachian Outlander?
Little Debbie makes a Raisin Cream Pie. We always called it a fly cake.
Love this and all the poems. Many thanks to all that shared them and to you for posting.
This shows me that make do people are make do people no matter where they are from. I have never had raisin cream pie, but I want to try it! Not sure what stodge is either. Thanks for your memories. They are great ones. I like the line,it doesn’t matter if you are a women. How true in many parts of the world.
Another really good one! I have enjoyed reading all of them. Seems we all have things in common no matter where we’re from.
It sounds like Theresa could move to Appalachia and never have any problems adjusting. You could give her grammar lessons and she would fit right in. I loved the poem, but have never heard of raisin cream pie or stodge.
Beautifully written! Like you, the final line made me stop and think – the value of family and friends. Very intense!
Beautiful!
Tipper, that was my favorite line as well. I had to stop and think about t a minute. “I am from people so rich in love that money never really mattered.” There is a whole world of information in that one statement.
Yep, Theresa’s life experience and values are very much like ours, but I’m wondering, what is stodge?
So enjoyed these stories Tipper. Thanks to all for sharing. Makes us feel the connection we all have, Appalachian or not.