All things nice . . .

 

(source)

Goin' home -- what lovelier word

Ever -- ever could be heard,

Home in warmth and firelight,

Little rooms that shine at night,

Back to the comfort of old things,

A kitchen where a kettle sings.

Goin' home -- to supper spread

Fried potatoes and home made bread,

Slippers warm beside the hearth,

Loveliest spot in all the earth,

A new book and an easy chair,

Someone precious waiting there.

Goin' home -- to the place you've made

With your own hands that  you wouldn't trade,

For a palace on a golden hill;

Where you've sweated and planned until

Every tree in the rooted soil

Is yours by dint of patient toil.

Goin' home -- with heart aglow,

Down the old road white with snow,

There a lighted window gleams,

Sending out its golden beams,

Like a lighthouse tall and white,

Shining out against the night.

Goin' home -- what lovelier word

Ever -- ever -- has been heard.

~Edna Jacques, Goin' Home

Hills of Home, 1946

To me, home was always where my mother was.  Perhaps because she was my first home . . . where I dwelt as I was being knit together inside her womb, and  then later where I learned to be . . .  was shaped into . . .  the person I was to become.  No matter how far away I roamed, when I came back to where she was . . . I was coming home. Oh how blessed I was to have a mother who made it so.

 

I am enjoying the last vestiges of the fruited cake I baked earlier this week.  It was a homey cake. Every buttery crumb, every sweet fruity raisin or bit of cherry has brought me immense pleasure. I still have a quarter of it left. I gave a quarter of it to my sister for them to enjoy.  Does that  mean I have eaten half of it myself.  Oh yes it does  . . .  a smidgen here, a smidgen there. 

Tiny slivers enjoyed with hot cups of lemon and ginger tea mid-afternoon. It is not often I bake a cake such as this and I am enjoying every morsel of it.  It is a cake that seems to get better tasting with every day that follows every day. It is a home sweet home kind of a cake.  It would not win any beauty contests for sure.  There are no frills and frou frous.  Its just a cake. Simple. Delicious. Comforting in a cake sort of way  . . . 

I have it stored in an old chocolate tin which once held chocolates all wrapped in jewel like wrappers.  Its wrapped in greaseproof paper and then tinfoil, their layers protecting it as only a treasure should be protected, for it is a treasure to me at any rate. Who knows when I will bake one again. It could be years. It could be never.  One never knows with cake  . . . 

 

(source)

I am so grateful for a life that has a hole in it large enough to hold Jesus.  I know that Jesus is not something many of you like to hear about, but to me He is everything. He is my friend. My best friend.  And although I have yet to see Him in person, I have felt and feel His presence around me. It is tangible.  I have felt and do feel his Grace every day of my life. I know not where I would be without it . . . without Him. He is the light in my darkness.  A steadying ballast through all the storms, and  my life has been stormy . . . and yet He is also present in my joy. He is my joy. The first. The last.  Everything in between.

 

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There was a time when I was a child that I wanted to be a dancer. I would dance every chance I could get.  My mother had a book in her bookcase that taught dance. I wish I could remember its name, but this morning it is escaping me.  It was a how to dance book and it taught everything from tap to the cha cha.  Its pages were decorated with small footsteps showing you which way to put your feet for every step.  I can remember following each step carefully so that I too could learn to fox trot or cha cha cha.

I was a child who would have loved ballet lessons, but my parents could ill afford such frivolous things. They had more important baskets to put their eggs in.  They did the best that they could for us.

As a teenager I used to love to go to the local teen dances. Oh what funny things they were looking back on them. The girls all on one side of the room, the boys on the other.   The girls waiting patiently for the boys to get up enough courage to be able to ask them to dance.  And I am sure it took great courage, as anything which might engender a negative response would do.

My ex husband always asked every girl in the room to dance . . .  once.  And we all said yes.  I can see him now.  He would approach with a sweeping bow when he asked . . . like a Prince Charming, and he would give another bow at the end, and then he would move on to the next girl.  How could I not fall in love  . . . 

 

(source)

Our lives are filled with "what if's."  I try not to think about them if I can help it. They can be stumbling blocks to the "promise" that our lives hold for each one of us.  Double-edged swords that can swing one way or the other.  I say, just live your life  . . . in the best way that you can, and let the what if's take care of themselves. Do the best with whatever you are given. Count it all joy.  Yes, you may fall from time to time, but it is not the falls that count so much as it is the times you get up again, or the times you soar  . . . despite the things that try to weigh you down.  

 

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Typewriters . . .  they are pretty much a thing of the past now, in this computerized age of keyboards and the like.  I can remember as a child borrowing a friend's typewriter to write some stories on. I remember writing a play on it that we performed in my friend's family garage.  It was one of those typewriters that you had to turn the ball for every letter. It took me forever to write that play.  But what fun I had doing it! As I wrote it I was following in the footsteps of Jane Austin or at least I felt as if I was.

Mom had a typewriter. It was one of the old type, and yes, an underwood.  My but it took a lot of energy and strength to push the keys down and then get up any speed, but we did it.  I remember in my secretarial course that I took after high school . . .  there we were, all sitting behind a desk, punching the keys with our fingers  together in rhythm. "A" "A A" "A" "AA"

The ding of the carriage as it hit the end of the row and then the pull back with the lever  . . . 

And then we progressed to electric typewriters and I can remember it feeling as if we were flying, or at least as if our fingers were flying. You had to moderate your touch or else you could quite easily end up with a whole row of "a's" without even trying.

There was a girl in our class who had no neck. If she wanted to look over at something or behind at something she had to turn her whole body. She could not simply turn her head.  

What a class we were. Somehow we felt like we were the elite of the whole trade school. Like . . . actually educated. We were not there because we couldn't cope with regular school.  We were not locked into a trade simply because we were not smart enough to do anything else.  We were one step down from being University educated.  And why was that??  

In my case it was because my parents didn't think girls deserved University Educations.  That education was reserved for the male species who would someday have to support a family. It was a very narrow way of thinking, just as it was very narrow for us to think that somehow because we were training to be secretaries that we were any better than the welders or the hairdressers. The thought of it shames me.  When we know better  . . . we become better.

This was a trade that I never really used. Not really. I would have been better served to have taken Commercial Art or even Chef's. Instead I would wait thirty years plus to do so.

What if  . . . 

 

(source)

I have always loved a lace trimmed shelf.  There has always been this desire in me to turn what I have into objects of beauty.  When I was a much younger woman I would have been crocheting edging to border all the shelves in my home. Now I am a much older woman I have come to appreciate that not all shelves have to have a lace trim in order to be beautiful. There is a great beauty to be found in simplicity itself.

 

(source)

I did okay with my eye test yesterday. I don't really like having the drops put in to dilate my eyes, but then does anyone?  I feel all out of sorts the whole rest of the day. I am deeply sensitive to bright light anyways, so when they do the drops I can scarce keep my eyes open. It took me a good 5 or 6 hours before the drops wore off to an acceptable level for me. I think even as I was going to bed my pupils were still a bit dilated.  And my left eye was quite irritated.  The lid was all red along the edge of my lashes where I had been rubbing it. I had to consciously stop myself from doing so.

In any case I am getting new eye glasses in about a fortnight. The change in my left eye was only slight, but I had not gotten new specs for a few years and so I thought it was time for a change.  I chose a simple frame from the cheaper side of the room. They always point you towards the Vera Wangs, but I always end up in the budget section. I don't even want to think how much the others cost! They are way out of my league.

I am just grateful for my eyesight and the blessing that it is.

And with that I best leave you with a thought for today  . . .  time's a wasting!

A thought to carry with you . . . 

° * 。 • ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ •
•。★★ 。* 。
° 。 ° ˛˚˛ * _Π_____*。*˚
˚ ˛ •˛•˚ */______/~＼。˚ ˚ ˛
˚ ˛ •˛• ˚ ｜ 田田 ｜門 ★

 *If you always do

what you've always done,

you'll always be

what you've always been.

•。★★ 。* 。•。★★ 。* 。

Someone said that I am sure, but I have no idea of who it was. Its just the thought that's been running through my head.

In The English Kitchen today  . . .  Steamed Ginger Pudding. A traditional recipe that comes with a lush ginger sauce for spooning over top.  Delicious!

Have yourself a happy little weekend. May it be filled with all things nice.  I am thinking fried potatoes and baked beans for supper today, and maybe some delicious buttered brown bread. A few slices of tomato.  Don't forget! 

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And I do too!