All Things Nice . . .

 

(source)

A platter of fried eggs . . . a jug of milk,

A stack of buckwheat pancakes piping hot,

Good homemade bread with lots of butter on,

Tea brewing on the stove in a brown pot,

And mother with her hair a bit awry,

Taking an anxious look toward the sky.

The wide old kitchen has a cushioned chair,

A red geranium on the window sill,

The sideboard has a tatted cover on;

A wood box waiting for the kids to fill;

An old couch covered with a patchwork quilt,

A high clock with a sort of rakish tilt.

The children finish up their hearty meal

Then gather up their books with clumsy haste;

Grandpa retires to the rocking chair,

While mother starts without a second's waste

To rid the dishes up and start her day,

Singing a tune from an old roundelay.

The father gathers up a pail or two,

Nods with a little smile towards his wife,

And suddenly between these twain there comes

One of the golden moments of a life,

A hallowed one-ness and a gentle smile,

That makes all toil and sacrifice worth while.

While an old room littered with breakfast things,

Becomes a place where angels fold their wings.

~Edna Jacques, Country Breakfast

Hills of Home, 1952

I don't know how she does it, but Edna gets me every time. I love her poetry so. It speaks to the heart and the soul of the human experience.  The days described in this poem may be long gone, but the heart of it will never be gone. There will always be people with beating souls that gather together and give all that they are and all of their love to the experience that is and becomes a family.  Be that we are living it now or that the feelings thus expressed in her words exist only in our conscious memory, these words I have shared today exemplify the fabric of family and the human existence. With each word read, I could see the family she wrote about, and it was not so very long ago that it was my family, and I dare say yours as well. A collective memory that speaks to the heartbeat of who we were, are, and ever will be.

Oh, the longings of the heart. The simple life. Belonging. Hearth. Home. Family. Love. Faith. These treasures never grow old.

 

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It is a bit of a gloomy day out there this morning.  It is supposed to turn to rain later on and will be a bit cooler today than it was yesterday, which came on quite warm by the afternoon. We took our father and picked up Maryann. Her face just glows when she sees us. She is a sweet, sweet lady.  She is in her 90's but you would never know it. She has the agility and gait of someone much younger. Oh, how I wish we were able to communicate with her better. Our conversation is limited because of her deafness and our inability to sign.  Our father doesn't know how to sign either, but somehow, they manage just fine. It is an easy friendship. 

I think she would like for it to be much more, but dad, you know, even at 92 likes to keep his options open. He likes things just as they are.  He is a man who always longs for female companionship but without any commitment on his part. He does not like to be tied down. It has ever been so.  That is just who he is. Despite this aspect, we love him to pieces, as did our mother even though he broke her heart time and time again. He always had a place at her table. Because, I suppose, that is who she was.  Loyal to the core to those she chose to love. There are worse things you could be than to be loyal.

 

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I think the most wonderful thing about home is that it is there. It goes beyond four walls and windows, a door. It is a feeling.  A place where you belong no matter who you share it with, even if that is only a pet or two or three, or even just yourself. It is the place that fuels your beating heart and fills it with warmth. Comfort. Peace. A place of rest. I give thanks at the end of every day for mine.  

When I was a much younger woman, I used to dream about having a home like the ones in the magazines that I used to love to buy, collect, and peruse.  Country Living was my favorite; its pages being filled with simple rusticity. Nothing too glamorous. I dreamt of having a home filled with antique furniture and quilts and braided carpets . . .  stoneware jugs and informal gardens, big eat in kitchens filled with light and with love.

I grew up in Military Housing that was allotted according to your rank. My father never got past a junior rank and so our homes were always very humble and very small. I shared a room with my sister, and at one time even my brother, for almost the whole of my childhood.

My first husband came from a farming family.  They had a beautiful big old farmhouse at the foot of the North Mountain here in the valley, with a big eat-in kitchen, two living rooms, a dining room, a den and five huge bedrooms upstairs, all wrapped up in clapboard with mullioned windows and a huge wrap around veranda and porch. There was even a hammock on the veranda in the summer months.

And then I married a military man and went back to Military Housing, allotted according to your rank.  The closest I ever came during those years to having a house of my dreams was when we built our own house and that was short lived.

I loved the cottage that we lived in when I worked at the Manor. That came very close to the dreams of what I wanted my home to be like when I was a much younger woman. The kitchen was my favorite part of it with it's big, beautiful windows looking out over the Orchards that bordered the back garden. A beautiful scene that perfectly catalogued the changing seasons of the year as they passed. 

Right outside the windows were beautiful rosebushes, some climbing roses, which, during the growing season, were covered with beautiful big pink, white and red roses. Roses that blew against the panes and scratched the glass in windstorms . . . I called them my dream windows.

"No matter where I serve my guests . . . it seems they like my kitchen best."

Life changes. Times and seasons.  Our circumstances are often fluid at best. 

Any place can be a home. A great lesson that I have learned in life is that it is not the walls which make a house a home, but the hearts that beat within those walls. No matter the size of the house, be it large or small.  The hearts within those walls can turn even the humblest of abodes into a mansion.  My little mansion I live in now is just right for me. I feel blessed every day to call it my home.

 

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Cindy and I are going out shopping this morning. We only got to a few places yesterday. I got to Walmart and picked up a birthday present for Dan whose birthday is on Monday, and we went to Sobey's to pick up a few bits. We are going to do the majority of our shopping this morning. We have the Super Store to go to and Giant Tiger, The Country Store, etc. I am also looking for a larger food processor than the one which I have so that I can make energy balls. Mine is very small and not that powerful.  I don't want to burn the engine out which can easily be done. We might have a look in Canadian Tire to see what they have in stock. 

And with that I best be off here and about the things I need to get done before we leave, and with that in mind I will leave you with a thought for the day. (Oh, it is good to be back and writing! I missed you!)

A thought to carry with you . . . 

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

 *.˛.I hope you realize that every day

is a fresh start for you.

That every sunrise is a new chapter

in your life waiting to be written.

~Juansen Dizon° * 。 • ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ •

° * 。 • ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ •

I am thinking of my dear Aunt Freda this morning who passed away on this day in 2006. I hardly seems almost 20 years since have passed.

In The English Kitchen today, Rhubarb Spoon Cake.  So delicious with a dollop of whipped cream on top.  If you enjoy rhubarb, you will love this tasty desert cake!

I hope you have a wonderful Saturday. Whatever you get up to stay safe. Be happy.  Always know . . . 

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⊰✿░G░O░D⊰✿⊰L░O░V░E░S⊰✿⊰░Y░O░U░⊰✿

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And I do too!!