Rooted

I once thought those people with whom I felt most at home were only found in one place, miles from my current home, far away from this region we name the "Deep South". Those folks I remember are the type who value practicality over indulgence, speak about values like hard work and endurance. They'll come in for supper with muddied boots, take them off at the door, and fold their hands into a prayer before the fork touches their lips.

Those people.

I thought those home-grown, down-to-earth, trustworthy people could only have come from where I knew them best, could still only be found in the grasslands and the farming communities of the Dakotas. Surely, surely.

But I get older each day. And everyday something new is revealed, something that uncovers a misconception, bridges two thoughts, or just teaches me more about life.

Those people aren't just found in the place I grew up. All types of people are found in every region - the values and conversation, habits and traditions I know most about and feel at home with are found even among people here.
I am a part of them and they me.

I see it in the way you scratch your ear when you talk, how you lean forward with a good story, how our stories are different and intertwined, the same. I see it in the way you laugh at a memory, hold your hands in your pockets, hold a simple confidence deep within yourself. I see it in your eyes, in the ruddiness of your cheeks. It's in the way you walk, the way you see things, in the way a smile develops when you remember that story you forgot.

You people have been here all along, you just word yourselves differently. You couch your phrases with "y'all"s instead of "Uffda"s. You're all Baptist, not Lutheran. You like spicy, not bland. You farm tobacco, not grain.

But inside yourself, you and I are more similar than different. I saw it tonight in the way we told our stories. I saw it in how we remember things, how we talk about who and what we love. I realized that those people I know there are not only in one place - you're also here.

We're all over.

Them's country folk.

More Spinning

"Dum, dum da da. Dis!"

"This is an instruction manuel. Look, it's you! Are you going to drive a tractor?"

Mother, daughter. Wearing teal, pink. Talking about tractors, daughter wearing a plastic hardhat.

"Got your Americano right here."

"Sophie, did you get your coffee yet?"

"Then you just say, what the hell is that?"

Water runs, runs and then tap, tap the grinds out.

"Mommy?" says the daughter. She drinks her orange juice.

"So, I think we're ready," says a man. "Basically, all we've gotta do is..." the grinder starts. Crunching ice, caramel, coffee together until it's smooth.

Three middle-aged men together at a table, one bright light shining above their heads. Everyone talking, discussing.

"Is mommy driving the tractor?"

"Nooo, mommy! I am!"

Two people to the left, sitting. She is wearing blue-striped headwear, a knitted shawl. She speaks and her left hand tells the story, too. He leans in. Glasses atop his head, right hand moving about.

A boy, alone at a table. Gets up to ask for a refill.

"I have a quiche, a quiche!" says the barista.

"Gettin' some stuff done?" asks another one.

"Mama, mama! I love you mommy. Up, mommy."

"Ok, but mommy's doing five things right now. Do you want to help mommy? You can tell me all about this crayon. And I'm going to write something on this computer."

"Hold, mommy. Hold, mommy! Hold..."

"You want to hold mommy?"

"Yeah."

I look over. The mother is holding her daughter, cheeks against each other, kissing the little girl's hand.

It's busy, so busy in here. Loud, hardly any music. There are over 20 people in this small space. Talking, laughing, huddled, quiet, reading, discussing, drinking, typing, eating, coming, leaving.

It works like this: people gather around something wonderful and life happens.

Spun Yarn

We share those stories that have been told so many times that we no longer decipher between what really happened and the lore that's ensued. Holding a drink in one hand, rubbing the back of your neck as you reminisce, slapping your knee, smoking a cigarette; these are the things people do when stories are told.

The stories have become so embedded into our history that it doesn't matter if they were once real or not. It doesn't matter because they are part of the remembered past we share together, part of whatever memories we allocate to one another. They exist because we've made them exist, created them together and remembered them alongside one another.

Flashes of children with bangs and big smiles, muddied hands and forts that were built, bikes ridden, games lost, school pranks that brought us to the principal's office. Then, later, there was band, there were the competitions, those days spent in the lunch room and so on, until after school there was more life lived, the apartments rented, the parties thrown, the loves lost, and the children gained. The friendships maintained throughout these changes are those that a person can only accept with gratitude. We close our eyes and let the pictures of our pasts dance across the backs of our eyelids. We may squint back tears for this thanksgiving of a rich life, or perhaps just rest in the contentment of years, and stories, and lives, gone by.

And we continue onwards, creating more, living fuller, breathing.