“Where ya from?” Such an off-the-cuff question. But to answer seems to be questionable.
Do you answer with where you live now? Is the right answer where you were born? Which in itself could pose a question. Most people who know my other half know he was raised in Buhl, Idaho. But he was born in Wendell, Idaho, where the hospital was at that time, and it’s another cute town just a little north of Buhl which he claims as his home town. But wouldn’t the town he was born in be his home town? Not to him.
I wouldn’t have that problem. I was born and raised in the same town. But that isn’t the town I graduated from high school. So since I spent what seemed to be an eternity in that second town, but in reality it was a formidable eight years. Is that where I’m from?
Then again where I live now is where I have lived for 40 years, the longest period of time during my stay on Mother Earth. So is where I live now where I’m from if I’m somewhere where someone asks me where am I from? Whew, what a merry-go-round that was — or is?
I noticed this question when I was watching a mindless game show on television. (There went 27 minutes that I’ll never get back). I also noticed I’m not alone in being stumped about where I’m from.
A regular looking guy on that show answered by telling he now lives in a mid-sized town in central Utah, but used to be from northern Arizona, however he was born in Kansas. On a roll he went onto say he only lived in Kansas for six days until his family moved to South Dakota for a few years. The show host didn’t know what to say. He just stood there shaking his head. It was amazing this contestant seemed to really not have anywhere to call home! I’m pretty sure in the end since he spent part of his life on that game show, well about 22 minutes, he no doubt added the address of the stage of that game show to the list of places he was from.
There have been people I cross paths with who have been born at home, one in the car on the way to the hospital. But for the most part we come into this world in a hospital or a reasonable facsimile of one. Which brings up the question of why would my parents, my father in particular, tell me I was found under a cabbage leaf?
Yes, for years while I was young and apparently not too bright, I really thought I was found down the road, in some farmer’s field, stuffed under a leaf of cabbage, just waiting there to be plucked up and taken home by a family. It was lucky for me I wasn’t born in March or I could have ended up in the pot with the corned beef celebrating St. Patrick’s Day! This was way before the Cabbage Patch dolls, by the way!
Now where you’re from isn’t like answering the timeless question of where do babies come from? That’s of course a decision many parents face at one time or another. And I would not, even for a moment, touch that question with a 10-foot pole. But — yes, a but — how many different ways can you recall hearing an answer to that question? Let’s see. We’ve already covered the cabbage patch answer. So what’s left? From the stork? From Heaven? From under you mom’s heart? Ah, how sweet. How about from love? Ah, double sweet. Maybe from a test tube? A miracle of modern science. All wonderfully evasive answers. I personally like when I hear a father tell his young child, “Go ask your mother.” Now there’s a good safe answer.
Actually this topic started in my little brain when my other half started to talk of putting headstones on our eternal plots. Yes, the cemetery. The place tin the end I will be from for a long, long time. I mean a really long, long time. We are at the stage of discussing what to put as lasting words of wisdom on the “carved in stone” stone. Apparently where I come from really won’t matter. For that matter, “I’m not from here!” or “Boo!” are not in the running for my last sentence. Going to be a long conversation that one is!
Trina lives in Eureka, Nevada. Her book ITY BITS can be found on Kindle. Share with her at itybytrina@yahoo.com.