Halfway up, I got stuck.  I couldn’t see how to get up or down, splayed across the cliff, hanging onto tiny stone ledge finger and toe holds.
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Berkshire County can feel like a very sleepy backwater when we have to wait for hours while a bomb squad with a robotic device drives to our rescue along the Mass Pike, all the way from Boston.
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WHERE I’M FROM inspired by a poem by George Ella Lyon

I am from the old country: Belarus, Poland, running from the Cossacks

The Lady with the Lamp: Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free

I am from Far Rockaway, NY; St. Louis, Detroit

I am from dill pickles, herring, a glass tea

I am from McAllister St., the Fillmore, the Ukraine Bakery; a run-down bar on Skid Row; eggs from Petaluma

I am from the fog, the street cars, the hills

I am from a chance meeting between two strangers on New Year’s Eve: good son Sam, beleaguered daughter Betty

I am from 1825 Turk St, San Francisco; 3023 Humphrey Ave, Richmond

I’m from jump rope, jacks, olly olly oxen free until summer darkness fell

I’m from riding down the street on my bike

I’m from noisy holiday dinners

I’m from backyard birthday parties, home movies without sound

I’m from Christmas mornings without a new bike

I’m from teachers, singers, writers and actors

I’m from don’t wear your heart on your sleeve

I’m from Cocoa Puffs and Trix, canned vegetables and chilled red wine

I’m from scrambled eggs with salami and rye bread with garlic

I’m from kugel and honey cake and matzo ball soup

I’m from a place I still dream about: a big backyard, a hammock strung between walnut trees and a small gray kitten next door

I’m from the show must go on and “Why, Julia Hershey, French toast!”

I’m from plan your work and work your plan

I’m from I love you with tears

A town can inspire and fuel dreams, usually without us realizing it until much later.
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