Where I Am From #21

By Maxine Lipner

Inspired by George Ella Lyon

I am from sharing black and white cookies with my older sister at the neighborhood

bakery, where the woman behind the counter knew my mother from way back when

From beads of lemon pledge on wood grain, hard-earned from a printer turned copy

editor’s wages and from the used, slightly dented, silver blue Chrysler that took us on

motel road trips

I am from the new Mitchell-lama coop built atop an immovable rock, pushed there by

the Ice Age

Tall, blond brick, with two curved wind-swept ramps, that at winter’s peak, with head

down, coat tight, tried your mettle

I am from little bonsai trees

The trunks sculpted — watered and wired by my mother’s artful hands

I am from wishing on eye lashes blown off fingertips and from, “I will spare you my

rendition of Happy Birthday — you’re welcome.”

From Shirley and from Red, who’s “Christian” name is Irving

I’m from two latchkey kids who wanted a mother at home for their own, to take the

incoming, and I am from a yearning to learn that had one immigrant grandfather

achieving phi beta kappa success in his 80’s

From “Who said life was fair” and from “If you really want it, don’t worry, we will be the

same millionaires.”

I’m from a devotion to science and facts, with no room for immeasurable deities, but

melded with an understanding of the matza ball soup, pastrami on rye, and bagels with

a shmear from whence I came.

I’m from Bronx blocks ringed by family and from the Anatevkas of Eastern Europe –

Seltz and Lemberg, Hotin and Sallopkowitz,

From egg creams on red stools at the candy store and pot roast and kasha vanashkas

for supper

From the grandfather, with the bad heart and the golden hands. The cabinet maker who

built a summer place on the land littered by rocks, that had to be cleared one by one, by

them all. Just one road away from the easy property with the view, never to be shown to

people with accents like theirs.

From garment workers with respect for union labels. The piece worker with the

designer’s eye and the shaky hands who told you the “honest truth.” As well as a tip of

the brim, to the other, the “hatter, whose mysterious illness was diagnosed by a doc

who later steered her pregnant daughter-in-law clear of thalidomide’s treacherous

waters.

From a printer’s “California Case” hanging on the wall, filled with World War II navy dog

tags, Arista pins, show tickets, and an old skate key that once hung around my neck to

tighten the metal clasps onto simple street shoes, transforming them into something

more.

All are pebbles from the original rock, bits from the whole that passed through our

hands – moments in time to be handed down of an instant when things were black and

white like cookies, but also rich with accents filled with color.

Where to find Maxine:

Website: https://www.maxinelipner.com/

Where to find Alyson:

Website: https://www.alysonshelton.com

Substack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/