I am from buffalo …

I’ve lived in the Western New York area for my whole life, as have generations of my family before me. We are Buffalonians. This past weekend, my husband and I spent some time in Buffalo’s Outer Harbor. One benefit of the annual “Fall Back” clock change is the chance to catch an early sunset. There is truly something hypnotic about the sun falling to its knees over water. Our afternoon reminded me of how grateful I am to have been raised in such a beautiful city. It’s a good place to have roots. It’s good to know where I am from …

I am from...

I am from an inherited house, built by my mother’s mother’s father in 1927.
I am from a-lot-and-a-half which made me feel rich in our University Heights neighborhood,
Single-family homes separated only by the width of a one-car driveway.
Ours had an extra slice of greenspace where there grew a jungle of variegated hosta.
I viciously pinched the purple flues before they opened;
their pleasing snaps my summertime percussion.

I am from a vegetable garden, neatly trimmed hedges, and a perpetually well-manicured lawn:
a private oasis whose seeds of industry harvested humility.
I am from the trunk of a tree all but obliterated by Dutch Elm Disease;
my mom reinvented it as a canvas showcasing smiles of Big Bird, Ernie, Oscar, and Cookie Monster. We were pictured in the local paper, my baby brother’s timidity resting on my mother’s shoulder.

I am from a yellow house, painted by my father’s dexterous, calloused hands.
No one will forget the day the asphalt flaunted a gallon of Lemon Twist.
My grandfather, hands on his hips, shook his head with a reproachful smirk.
It was the first time I ever saw my dad as someone’s child.

I am from block parties with barbeques wheeled into the middle of the street, water balloon
tosses, and sack races.
I am from parades: my bike decorated with raucous streamers, a white basket shouting pink and blue plasti flowers, and a banana seat.
We stood as we pedaled.
I am from a happy childhood.

I am from neighbors who lingered on covered porches, swatted at mosquitoes in summer’s
humidity, and sipped gossip and cheap beer from cans in koozies.
I am from pig-tailed girls who linked arms on the first day of school; a snapshot was our mother’s pause button.
I am from Piano Man and Material Girl and Thriller.
I am from roller skating backwards on a blacktop driveway smooth as ice (the driveway, not me).
I am from Little House and Anne of Green Gables ad Cabbage Patch Kids,
I am from a homemade dollhouse whose width measured larger than the basement door frame - an accident not discovered until late Christmas Eve.

I am from daily happy hours at the basement dry bar on West Winspear Ave, a ritual more hallowed than religion:
Dry martinis, cherries soaked in Manhattans, oyster crackers and pretzels, and a shot glass sticky with gin.
Where urban legends were disguised as memories.

I am from an Italian Poppa, barely five feet tall who lived the life of a giant in 92 years.
(I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone I was his favorite even though he told everyone.)
From Grandma’s crocheted afghans still at the foot of my bed
four and a half decades later.

I am from road trips to the beach -
South Carolina in the spring and Maine in the summer -
my brother as my playmate because my parents believed in “just us four” time.
I am from subtle luxury,
wealth found in how we chose to spend our time, not necessarily our money.

I am from Sunny Room 309 on the Hilltop where I fell in love with Angelou, Morrison,
and Sandburg’s little cat feet; I learned to dance with my own pen like a drunkard clutching an empty bottle, afraid to ever put it down because I don’t want the party to end.

I am from old friends - Lifers - whose laughter echoes in the chambers of my childhood;
Pals who maintain the love, no matter the geography.
I am from the white rose of a junior prom corsage, “Unforgettable,”
still blooming with two babies, a homestead acre,
and Peanut Butter, the cat who adopted us.

I am from the fortitude of a hurricane
a storm of --ectomies threatening my shore;
a platoon of --ologists armed for slaughter.
I am not from pink ribbons.
I am from Motherhood’s tenacity: no way my boys will grow up without me.
I am from never give up, never slow down, NEVER die young.

I am from work-hards and live-longs, be-prouds and love-strongs.

I am from I can do it myself.