A beautiful statement from a follower of our site and then 9 poems! from Gilbert South Carolina: full of imagery, story, food, details. Enjoy these.

A thought from one of our readers

                           Aldo Salvatore Coraggio

I want the earth to become a place where the person is at the center, not profit, a place where the person is worth for his being and for his actions, not for his possessions

I am from a tennis town where Palmetto

Championships are still played each May.

Where the Standpipe stands guard over the

small building that once housed the library,

close enough for me to walk for a book.

I am from closed-off streets on Wednesday

afternoons when shops were closed and kids

could skate their cares away around the

town square.

I am from home-made biscuits on the table three

meals a day unless you wanted a slice of

Merita bread to accompany your fresh

vegetables and chicken with gravy,

homemade chow-chow and sweet pickles.

I am from going to church on Sunday morning and

Sunday night with other activities during the

week—First Baptist, then a church

plant—Eastview where I learned to play the

organ. Bible school with glass-bottled Nu-

Grape and Orange Crush iced down in a tin

washtub to drink with your moon pie or

pack of Nabs.

By Betsey Matheny, 

Pegasus Poet and Foothills Writers Guild Member

I Am From:

I am from homemade yeast rolls tied in knots with butter glistening on top.

From King Arthur flour and Fleishman’s active dry yeast in the packets of three connected together side by side.

I am from a two story clapboard house on a deep lot with slate roof, wide porches, and a one car, two strip driveway,

Our house nestled comfortably between neighbors houses much the same.

I am from snowbanks piled up taller than my head on both sides of the street where six to ten kids dug tunnels and made snow forts armed with an arsenal of well made snowballs or ice balls, (depending on the overnight temperatures).

I am from clams roasted on an open fire over a cast-off Ford pick-up tailgate.

From determined, independent folk bent on finding their own way of doing things right.

I am from  Joseph, called “Joe” by everyone who knew him, and Grace Mary, just called “Mom” or “Grandma  Grace” depending on your generation.

I’m from family gatherings where everyone talked at the same time and no one listened.

I’m from listeners who really hear you when you need them to.

I am from “Don’t let this set-back stop you from trying.”

And from “You will find your way through this!”

I’m from Quaker Quarterly Meeting Sunday suppers on the grounds,

And Silent Meetings listening for the still small voice of God.

I am from the Adirondack foothills, great northern baked beans slow cooked in a crock, and Mamie Eisenhower’s Fudge for desert.

I am from the calloused hands and bent shoulders of my grandpa who once deadlifted a boulder three men with crowbars had been unable to budge from the hand shoveled water well they were digging out back.

I am from the log cabin built out of old telephone poles, and a fireplace built of fieldstones gleaned from a tumbled down property line stone wall.

I am from family photos taken outside that same cabin, in front of that massive stone chimney.

From the family reunion pics. and the one proud child with their first catch of fish pics.

From the log cabin, that was a three generation family bonding experience. Every stone of that chimney was mortared in by Joe’s hands and carried there, one wheelbarrow at a time, by my brother, Johnny.

I am from Barnes, Varney, Hall, Smith, Hoague, Superaut, Cooley, Stiles, Jackson, Johnson, and Gailey ancestry. Then I married John Stepp  and doubled my family tree.

I am from Irish, English and French Canadian stock who have been in the Americas since the 1700’s as farmers, laborers, business men, and women of honest labor, and proud service to both community and country.

I am from the first generation in our family to achieve higher education degrees, but certainly not the first to demonstrate creativity. There is an actress, three quilt makers, oil painters, miniature creators, bakers, herbalists, seamstresses, fine cooks and candy makers just to name a few among the women in my pedigree.

Susan B. Stepp, FootHills Writers Guild, Pegasus Poets II


I am from the red clay hills of Georgia 

          near the bustle of Atlanta 

          on the banks of the Flint River 

          where it is still only a stream 

          dammed up by my grandfather 

I have been from south Florida 

          with summer sun all year, 

palm trees, hurricanes, flat land 

citrus plucked fresh off the tree 

sandy soil, ocean breezes, flowers 

I have also been from the hills of north Georgia 

          in a town with one traffic light 

          where strong down-to-earth country folk 

          taught me simple values of rural life: 

          porch sitting and homemade biscuits 

 I am now from South Carolina  

          for over half a century, with 

          roots deep in the Carolina soil 

          surrounded by family, friends, neighbors, 

          former and current students of all sorts 

I am from generations of strong folks 

          who taught me to value life, 

          sunshine, meaningful work 

          honesty, chickens and goats 

          digging in the dirt, rain 

          each other, and every moment 

All these places have brought me to this day 

          and to a deep appreciation of this life. 

          The weaving of my tapestry continues

Mary McAlister, Pegasus Poets and Foothills Writers Guild

I Am From

   By Angela Mason Lowe (11/4/2021)

Pegasus Poets and Foothills Writers Guild

I am from South Carolina’s breath-taking 

            waterfalls and rippling streams

From Oconee’s cloud covered mountains,

            cool and crisp.

I am from a family of bohemians,

             wanderers who paint life in colors

From shades of blue, green, yellow and red.

I am from musical instruments,

            a four-string fiddle and ukulele

From piano keys and guitars

            played by ear.

I am from the rhythm of the drums 

             words of a song

From the healing balm of music.

I’m from the strong and the brave, 

            secure in faith.

From patriots and rebels, 

            immigrants and natives.

I am from the stories behind  

            pictures hung on the wall

From the soldiers of the red, white and blue.

I am from the richness of the dirt 

            plowed by the farmer

From a seed planted, watered, 

            weeded and nurtured.

I am from two hands used for work 

            and gentle caresses

From cotton mill workers and entrepreneurs.

I am from the lessons in life

            taught through hardships and trials.

From sprinkled with laughter,

            smile through the tears.

I am from the lines of a lyrical poem,

            a shy actor on a stage

From rhyme and reason.

I am From 

by Diana Carnes Pegasus Poets and Foothills Writers Guild

I am a slender willow, pliant, bending in the wind

Not an oak whose thick coarse branches would first break before rescind.

I am a fragile lily who wants tucking in at night

But defend my hearth by day and give intruders cause for flight.

My blade is used to slice the haunch or carve my babe a rattle

But do not underestimate its value in a battle.

I hunger with a quest for knowledge – base and elevated –

But no matter how much time I read, my need’s unsatiated.

My bond for daughters, sisters, mothers – is deep and goes unspoken

But with men somehow strange passions flare and nature’s almost…broken.

I am daughter of the daughters of the Amazons of yore

Who first conquered, then enthralled the chosen men whose get they bore.

I am silly when I’m happy and I brood when I am not

But the tie I feel for family just can never be unwrought.

I am From

by Jay Wright: Foothills Writers Guild

I’m from the foothills of Appalachia in northwest Georgia 

   where we feasted on neck-wrung chicken dinners 

   on Sundays after church at Grandma’s. Where we 

   were joined by Preacher Robinson, his family, and 

   other deep-water Baptists. Where Grandma held

   in-home prayer meetings with neighbors on 

   Wednesdays. Where neighbors shared bounty from 

   their red dirt gardens. Where snuff-dipping, gossipy 

   neighborhood women gathered around old wooden

   quilt frames every winter to lovingly create warm,

   beautiful quilts from flour sacks and scraps of clothes

   worn paper thin over time.

I am from a neighborhood of family and friends, 

   Grandpa’s in-home visits by Dr. Allen, fresh-churned 

   butter from Suki’s morning milking, telephone party lines, 

   hours spent in an old tire swing, and home-made 

   ice cream cranked to perfection by us older kids.  

   From a neighborhood where north winds brought the

   stench of paper mills fifty miles away. From a black 

   and white TV that brought Bear Bryant football 

   highlights over a hundred miles away with only 

   a rooftop antenna. The Bear’s still my hero.

I am from a little three-traffic light town full of clothing 

   mills. Where my single mom worked alongside everyone 

   else’s parents. Where there were more mill workers than 

   farmers, more moonshiners than preachers, more barbers 

   than beauticians, far more stick shifts than automatics, 

   and the best kind of teachers.

I am from the foothills of majestic, snow-capped Mt. Etna 

   in Sicily. Where I stood watch from our Naval Air Force 

   base and witnessed Etna’s volcanic eruptions in the distance

   beyond our runways, causing fear and devastation to the

          farmers and their lands. I met people who were poorer, 

          less educated, and more desperate than any I’ve ever

          known before or since.  

Now, I am from Appalachia’s foothills in South Carolina,

   I see mountains on clear days. I’m surrounded by 

   dear, interesting people. God-fearing people. Locals 

   who sound like locals. Transplants who also seem to feel 

   at home here in these foothills.


I am from praying daily in public school,

From proudly reciting the Pledge of Allegiance to our flag.

I am from jump rope, hopscotch, and tic-tac-toe,

From reading, writing and arithmetic.

I am from black and white television with rabbit ears,

From Mr. Ed the Talking Horse and Captain Kangaroo.

I am from Bible stories in Sunday School,

From singing songs in the Red Back Hymnal.

I am from catching lightning bugs in mason jars,

From swing sets and super slides.

I am from fall fairs held in the cool crisp autumn air,

From excited children waiting for Santa at the end of the Anderson Parade.

I am from picking blackberries fresh on the vine,

From a bowl of cornbread and buttermilk served with a glass of sweet tea.

I am from saying “Yes Mam” and “No Mam”,

From nightly prayers of “Now I lay me down to sleep”.

I am from China tea sets and pretty baby dolls,

From cap guns and holsters and cowboy boots.

I am from sharecroppers to cotton mill hands,

From an “honest days’ work for an honest days’ pay”.

I am from experience and wisdom that can only be gained,

From life’s valuable lessons.

By Ann Ramsey, 

Foothills Writers Guild and Pegasus Poets

I Am From

By Patricial Wood,

Foothills Writers Guild and Pegasus Poets

I am from:

Willow trees by mud-red river.

Arrowheads, fossils and canoes.

Wild honeysuckle by the acre.

Cold Pepsi in glass bottles with peanuts.

I am from:

Outside fish fries and patio barbecues.

Hidden waterfalls, boat rides and water skis.

Bike trails and mountain hikes on footpaths.

I am from:

Sunday dinners at Grandma’s,

Table spilling over with delicious.

Homemade peach ice cream

to tickle your palate.

I am from:

Small community, big family, faithful worshippers.

White country churches with graceful steeples.

A porch full of flowers in summer.

A swing filled with giggling kids.

I Am From the South

I Am From…

Cincy O’Brien

I am from wild, wonderful West Virginia.

I am from a small town that borders the Little Coal River in Boone

County. Days of nostalgia, playing tag and whiffle ball until 

darkness fell over the top of the mountain. The aroma of home 

cooked supper wafted in the air as I came through the front door, 

sweaty, and in need of a hot bath.

I am from the simple life of church on Sundays and Wednesdays,

and revivals in the spring and fall, whether we needed it or not. Our
rhythm of life encouraged cookouts with neighbors, and lazy summers

of doing nothing at all. Pinto beans and cornbread were staples in our

diet, as well as homemade biscuits slathered with real butter and honey.

I am from Saturdays of chores and visits to the bookmobile. Slipping 

into the cool mobile library, the aroma of anticipation washed 

over my ten year old self, holy ground for a book lover.

I am from Goff’s and Bailey’s and sweet memories of Sunday dinners

after church. Arriving at Ma Bailey’s house after the curvy drive on

mountain roads, my taste buds were rewarded with fried chicken and 

mashed potatoes, of which there is no equal. Her gentle spirit and soft 

voice echo in the corridors of memory. Flowerbeds of colorful wildflowers 

decorated her modest yard. Butterflies and bumblebees feasted on yellow,

pink, and purple blooms, a foreshadowing of my future yard.

I am from hillbillies and coal miners, alcoholics, and everything in

between. My people are hard workers, murderers, saints, gamblers,

preachers, and entrepreneurs. We survived floods, coal mining 

strikes, black lung, attempts of suicide, the deaths of children and 

parents, and discovered that the sun eventually slips into the eastern sky.

I am from a lonely world of trauma and death; A place of bondage 

and fear. Escape came in the safety of a counselor’s office.

I am from holy healing and abundant miracles.

I am from a place of longing for what could never be, and a place I 

could never return.

I am from rugged mountains, rippling streams and rivers, and turbid 


I am from West by God Virginia, the Hatfield and McCoy’s, and

Take Me Home Country Roads.

I am from wild, wonderful West Virginia.

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