I am From...by guest contributor Jean 3

Where I’m From
I am from brown cardboard boxes and tall stacks of newspapers, from trips to Goodwill, K-Mart and garage sales. I'm from starting over and the countless new faces in strange towns that I will never see again.
I am from blackberry bushes by the railroad tracks. From the slippery, fishing pier at Dillon’s Beach and from the sand dunes, too, perfect for hide and seek. I am from lost gardens of sunflowers and tomatoes that grew in our happiest years, the ones that I don’t remember, but have faded pictures of to prove they existed.
I am from Grandpa Guy and his crossword puzzle books. And from Nannie and Papa, who loved me like I was really theirs to love. I’m from my older brother, Tim, with his knuckles in my shoulder every time he passed by and from the love my dad tried to give me, but couldn't. I’m from my mom’s elegant sister, Jackie and from silly Uncle Danny and tough Aunt Marlene. I am from stories of other grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins who I really never knew, but wish I could have.
I’m from rings of coffee left on kitchen counters by stained, mismatched mugs. From Smurfs, Snorks, and Scooby-Doo with Captain Crunch every Saturday. I am from goulash, hunks of French bread and cheddar cheese and avocado halves with dollops of Best Foods mayonnaise (never cheap imitation mayonnaise, no matter how broke we were). I am from reeking of stale cigarette smoke that clung to everything we owned, but not smelling it. From turn-tables blasting Band on the Run and Jet Airliner. I am from Alice's Restaurant and from the warm, yellow sunshine that always found me and embraced me every summer like an old friend.
I am from eighteen different schools, more towns and homes than I can count and too many long-forgotten “Best Friends Forever”. I’m from every Judy Blume book ever written, Friday Night Dedications and tears because I never got one. I am from clunkers that always managed to get us where we were going and from icy bottles of Pepsi-Cola with left-over pepperoni pizza for breakfast. I’m from pinball, homemade chocolate-mint milkshakes and videos of Elvis and Me and Dirty Dancing.
I am from Mom’s cedar hope chest that was stolen in ‘78 and was filled with baby shoes, memories and Dad’s Vietnam uniform. I am from a myriad of goodbyes, but just as many hellos and from beautiful strangers that surprised me with gracious, welcoming smiles. I am from the kindness of people who didn’t know me long, but cared anyway.
I’m from 1972 in Astoria, Oregon and a long line of dreamers. From cool, salty air that washed over me and will forever enchant and beckon me. I am from the highways that run between California and Missouri and back again. From hearts filled with wanderlust and the Eagles.
But mostly I’m from my mom. From all of her love and her searches for home. I am from my mom, who still dreams.