I Am From

Robyn has excelled herself (yet again).

Get thee over here now and read her post, then follow her instructions …

Here's mine:

I am from Dansette and Bush Wireless, Parlophone and Sun, from the stack of 78s my Dad brought home from playing nuclear dare with the Soviets, now nestling in their lovingly tended case.
I am from the little "Beatles" guitar Uncle Bernie bought me in '64; from the BBC Home Service and pirate Radio Caroline, beaming sweet rock'n'roll to a small boy hiding under the covers from the ice inside my tiny bedroom window; from the dank back alley; the leaden skies and the dark terror of the outside privy.

I am from Denmark Road; from Providence Place; from grim rows of cold brick terraced housing; from scavenged newspaper sheets rolled into tight sticks for the fire under the copper, to give us hot water.
I am from the tin bath brought down from its nail on the wall once a week and placed on the floor in front of the big black iron range; from the smell of washday permeating the whole world; from the taste of licorice fountains and sherbert lemons, sticky and coated in pocket fluff.
I am from the railway shunting yard at the bottom of the road; from hunting small animals in the long grass and dodging trains; from the detritus scattered in front of the foxes' den.
I am from from the darkness of a cold attic bedroom over an Uncle's shop in Whitstable where I found fabulous books by Victorian explorers and escaped to the Himalayas and the Mato Grosso.

I am from fields of kale and wheat towering over my head as we chased across my grandparents' farm; from acres of flowering clover carpeting the common; from the gnarled trees and hidey-holes of Boney's Island.

I am from my parents' ragtime and boogie-woogie around the piano; from Sunday School in the Mission House at the top of the road with Mum on the organ; from walking miles and miles out to the farm at weekends, Mum pushing her bike with baby brother strapped to the top, Dad carrying the cardboard suitcase; from family trips to the seaside on the last steam trains.

I am from St.Michael's parish church; from the Mission House; from the family bible; from the Word of God beaten into innocent children by angry old men.

I am from Zerafa Street in Malta where a family of printers and a family of farmers came together; from a bookish girl brushing scorpions off her baby and a farmboy playing with nuclear bombers. I am from a young couple coming home to a cold country and a harsh life. From a woman who gave up her career to raise a couple of kids the best she could and a man who worked his family onto the right side of the tracks.

I am from boxes of old photographs of people who have lost their names and will never find them again. I am from the strange corners of my Mother's attic and the tiny pieces of Dad still left at the back of her garage.

I am from the lovingly tended case of 78s my parents danced to in the Mediterranean sunshine.


And here's the farm,
Dad's 78s, the Med and the privy,
Providence Place
and the memory of music.