There is an expression, “who are you from home”, that is used in the small town where I live. It’s a way to identify you as someone’s child, your social status, how much land you have or don’t have and just who are your people. “A need to know thing”, so that you can be dealt with accordingly by whomever is asking. Well, it really irked me, that is, until I really thought about it and then it made me proud.
I am not from here or at least not as the locals would consider me because most immigrated here in the mid to late 1800’s by train up from Galveston’s port. My people came in the mid 1600’s by way of Ireland, by way of England into Virginia, then Kentucky, Arkansas and then Texas. They were pioneers: fearing God, settling land, breaking ground, fighting wars for freedom and surviving, thriving and lasting. Good Irish stock and I am proud to say that is who I am from home on my mother’s side.
My father’s side are French and Indian. The story is that a French Trapper wanted to cross the White River in Arkansas and reached a cross over that had a toll booth of sorts manned by Indians of the area. He wanted to cross but couldn’t pay so he stayed and fell in love with an Indian girl. I love this area in the Ozarks way up high in the mountains, clean air, clear water, red dirt and rocks and music. Oh, the music is beautiful and sings of the Savior in pure sweet mountain voices with songs handed down from generation to generation.
My husband is someone “from home”. He is Czech and Polish. His roots come from the migration in the late 1800’s by train into Industry, Texas, where his forefathers spread out from there to Chappell Hill, Brenham, Schulenberg, Moulton, Houston and back. All hard working and God fearing.
Our sons have the Irish, Czech, Polish, French and Indian in them. We homeschool and our aim is to raise responsible, independent men who love God with all their hearts.