I Come From...
by Art Busse
I come from the land of Lincoln and Sandberg, honest guys with big shoulders, where acres of corn stand tall in their rows facing the sun the way we would face our teachers hoping we wouldn't be called on because standing out was something we were taught not to do.
I come from the Windy City of Capone and Daily, where getting it done was what mattered, and who you knew was how it got done. Plane and simple, hard and cold, and don't come crying to me when you fall on your face.
I come from slaughter houses and factories where work was its own virtue and the time clock made brothers and sisters of us all, where when we sat and said grace, it was the union we thanked.
I come from the land of associations and clubs - men's clubs, country clubs, service clubs, club houses, club sandwiches, golf clubs, where belonging was the best way to know how well you were doing.
I come from hallowed halls, ivy covered walls, and stripped ties, where your back gets slapped to congratulate you on being congratulated by some other guy in the same tie.
I come from good stock, and live stock, and ham hocks, and hammocks, and lawns, and mowers and grills that live on in the mind long after the apples have fallen and snow blankets the ground.
I come from glad tiding and good news and big smiles, where optimists run for office and kids share their lunch, and the days are packed full of things you can count on.
I come from the land where denial runs rampant, and monsters are dressed in the very best clothes, where feelings are buried with a view of the lake and what is owed to each other always gets paid.
I come from a place I will never return to, the land of my mother and sisters and aunts.
I come from Chicago, and I'll never forget it, it's the ground that I stand on, and from which I take flight.
P O Box 1060
Point Reyes Station, CA 94956
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