Where I Am From #21By Maxine LipnerInspired by George Ella LyonI am from sharing black and white cookies with my older sister at the neighborhoodbakery, where the woman behind the counter knew my mother from way back whenFrom beads of lemon pledge on wood grain, hard-earned from a printer turned copyeditor’s wages and from the used, slightly dented, silver blue Chrysler that took us onmotel road tripsI am from the new Mitchell-lama coop built atop an immovable rock, pushed there bythe Ice AgeTall, blond brick, with two curved wind-swept ramps, that at winter’s peak, with headdown, coat tight, tried your mettleI am from little bonsai treesThe trunks sculpted -- watered and wired by my mother’s artful handsI am from wishing on eye lashes blown off fingertips and from, “I will spare you myrendition of Happy Birthday -- you’re welcome.”From Shirley and from Red, who’s “Christian” name is IrvingI’m from two latchkey kids who wanted a mother at home for their own, to take theincoming, and I am from a yearning to learn that had one immigrant grandfatherachieving phi beta kappa success in his 80’sFrom “Who said life was fair” and from “If you really want it, don’t worry, we will be thesame millionaires.”I’m from a devotion to science and facts, with no room for immeasurable deities, butmelded with an understanding of the matza ball soup, pastrami on rye, and bagels witha 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 vanashkasfor supperFrom the grandfather, with the bad heart and the golden hands. The cabinet maker whobuilt a summer place on the land littered by rocks, that had to be cleared one by one, bythem all. Just one road away from the easy property with the view, never to be shown topeople with accents like theirs.From garment workers with respect for union labels. The piece worker with thedesigner’s eye and the shaky hands who told you the “honest truth.” As well as a tip ofthe brim, to the other, the “hatter, whose mysterious illness was diagnosed by a docwho later steered her pregnant daughter-in-law clear of thalidomide’s treacherouswaters.From a printer’s “California Case” hanging on the wall, filled with World War II navy dogtags, Arista pins, show tickets, and an old skate key that once hung around my neck totighten the metal clasps onto simple street shoes, transforming them into somethingmore.All are pebbles from the original rock, bits from the whole that passed through ourhands – moments in time to be handed down of an instant when things were black andwhite 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.comSubstack: https://whereimfrom.substack.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/byalysonshelton/ 

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