#home

ONE MAN'S HOME...

 

His name was Howard Solomon and without a lot of circumstance or pomp

he bought some land near Sarasota and built himself a castle…in a swamp.

 

Without much schooling and with no plans…it’s hard to understand

how he made something so beautiful with just his imagination and his hands.

 

But he did and it’s quite magnificent…it’s both whimsical and fun

as the luster of its silver siding shimmers in the sun.

 

And it was a wonderful place to visit, to walk its halls, to see it shine

but this was his dream…his castle…built with his imagination…not mine.

 

Which made me glad to return to my home…where my memories are sown.

Glad that, although a little smaller and less shiny, I have a castle of my own.

 

And I couldn’t help but smile once we turned into our driveway knowing we were back

once we opened our door..once we entered…and I hung my hat upon the rack…

 

Because it reminded me of something I already knew long before this adventure got it’s start:

 

Home is not only where you hang your hat…it’s where you hang your heart


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HIS OLD HOUSE

He loves to walk inside his old house when everyone’s asleep

When the world around is so quiet you cannot hear a peep.

 

For in the quietude of slumber when the bats and fireflies thrive

is the time within the walls of his old house when memories come alive.

 

Memories of laughter and tears echo off the walls

Memories of his children and grandchildren echo down the halls.

 

Sometimes he stops to listen…sometimes…to different rooms he’s drawn

as he marvels at his old house…where his world has come and gone.

 

Today as he takes his final walk…

his children are grown…

his wife is gone

He packs up every memory…he knows it’s time for moving on.

 

He will take his memories with him but he knows some will linger in these walls

which he will gladly share with the new owners when another nighttime falls.

 

And he hopes as these new owners walk these halls when everyone’s asleep

when the world around is so quiet you cannot hear a peep

 

That he or she will stop and listen…smile…and be so kind

 

as to allow the new memories they are making to mix with those he leaves behind.


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HOME

When he was a baby he didn’t know what a home was…He didn’t now hat he had

He only knew two faces there…that of Mom…and that of Dad.

 

When he began to crawl and walk…so many years ago

he noticed as he was getting bigger…his house began to grow.

 

When he was but a little boy and into every room he crept

he knew his house was where he lived…where he ate…and where he slept.

 

He knew it kept him safe and dry.  He knew it’s where his family blended.

He knew it’s where his day began and where, at night, it ended.

 

When he reached his teenage years he noticed less and less the things within it

because as teenagers are wont to do…he was spending less time in it.

 

He spent less time at home now…for he was nearly fully grown

Less time with his parents and family…more time on his own…

 

It wasn’t till he moved away…that he was hit with a surprise

when he began to see his house…through a different set of eyes.

 

His mind began to wander and his thoughts to reminisce

he thought about his house…and all the things that he now missed.

 

He suddenly remembered moments…so many lessons his house taught

Moments of love and laughter and family…he thought he’d long forgot.

 

And when he’d call his parents…he’d ask them if they would

say hi to the house he grew up in…and his parents understood.

 

Now every time he visits…from wherever he may roam…

he pauses outside his house to smile…

 

knowing he is home.


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FUTURE MEMOIRES

Immediately upon entering the house 

she squeezes her husband’s hand and sighs

for she can see so many future memories

 

unfolding before her eyes.


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HOUSE INSPECTION

A friend is buying the house next door to ours…

and yesterday I was transfixed

as inspectors came to scrutinized that house

an tell her what needed fixed. 

 

After 50 years of service…

that house proudly stood while they inspected…

they turned in a 60 page report…

of all the things that need corrected.

 

As I watched them it made me wonder…I was moved to introspection…

if this old house we live in…could pass such close inspection.

 

After 30 years of living here I am painfully aware

like all of us…this old house shows it’s wear and tear.

 

The laundry room’s still incomplete…the French doors stick after a rain.

And why some of the light switches work in reverse is difficult to explain…

 

I’m sure the wiring’s not up to code..and there’s that upside down hanging door,

our plumbing runs through the attic…theirs cracks in the ceiling and the floor.

 

But when I looked up to count the cracks…I was overcome by a wonderful feeling

of how we raised three children here…despite the cracks in this old ceiling.

 

And I started thinking how my house inspection is anything but routine…

how I need to consider the laughter…the tears…and the love this house has seen.

 

When I inspect my house I’m not thinking price…I’m thinking value…because

we’ve come to love this old place in spite of all her flaws.

 

And herein lies the difference…

 

What an inspector might see as defects in this old outmoded space

I see more as wrinkles…like the ones upon my face.

 

Where an inspector sees the flaws in my house as through these halls he roams

 

I see a house with character…I see family…I see home.


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CABIN IN THE MOUNTAINS

It’s just a cabin in the mountains Deborah’s parents built years ago

It’s seen it’s share of summer rains, autumn leaves and winter snows.

 

As we’re about to leave on our next adventure

I like to sit for a moment…to recall

what is it about this cabin…what’s so special about these walls…

 

I smile…take a deep breath…then right before my eyes

as I look around this cabin…memories come floating by…

 

How fast the memories come…how quickly they arrive

of when our children were so little…when Deborah’s parents were alive…

 

The games we played at the table…it really isn’t hard

to see our grandchildren playing where our children once played

running up and down the yard…

 

The hours spent out on our porch…watching the rain…

rocking in the rocking chairs…

paper airplanes launched from the top deck

slingshots shooting beans high in the air..

 

All the campfires we have sat around…watching the fire roar…

Telling stories, roasting marshmallows…building our s’mores.

 

Friends who visited us while we’ve been here…people sleeping on the floor

the cabin filled with laughter…these are memories I adore…

 

I know what it is about this cabin…why it keeps us so enthralled…

It’s because of all the memories…we’ve painted on its walls…

 

Memories are such wonderful gifts…once they are formed within our mind

not only do they leave with us…but they also stay behind…

 

To remind us this is more than just a cabin…

to remind us no matter where we roam….

our memories will be waiting here….

 

To remind us we are home.


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THE SADDEST HOME OF ALL

What is it about an abandoned house…

neglected…empty…just sitting there?

What is it about its vulnerability that makes us stop and stare?

 

Perhaps what makes us pause a while…as across this land we roam

is that we realize it’s not just an abandoned house…

it is an abandoned home.

 

It’s sad to think this crumbling house has lost its soul…its heart.

And sad to think this one-time home has been left to fall apart

 

When we see it isolated…lonely…deserted…

it allows our imagination to flow

Since there’s no-one there to tell its story…

there’s so much we’ll never know

 

But we know there was a story here…

one we cannot disregard…

What happened to the family who lived inside it?

Did children play in its front yard?

 

Did joy and happiness fill its walls?
Was their laughter…love…and glee?
Did it see its share of pain and suffering?

Did it witness tragedy?

 

I imagine some homes with people in them 

can be crazy, insane or mad…

can be happy, joyful, supportive 

can be sorrowful or sad.

 

But as I stand here staring at this old house

with it’s falling roof and decaying walls

I have to wonder if an abandoned house

 

isn’t the saddest home of all.


What is it about an abandoned house…

neglected…empty…just sitting there?

What is it about its vulnerability that makes us stop and stare?

 

Perhaps what makes us pause a while…as across this land we roam

is that we realize it’s not just an abandoned house…

it is an abandoned home.

 

It’s sad to think this crumbling house has lost its soul…its heart.

And sad to think this one-time home has been left to fall apart

 

When we see it isolated…lonely…deserted…

it allows our imagination to flow

Since there’s no-one there to tell its story…

there’s so much we’ll never know

 

But we know there was a story here…

one we cannot disregard…

What happened to the family who lived inside it?

Did children play in its front yard?

 

Did joy and happiness fill its walls?
Was their laughter…love…and glee?
Did it see its share of pain and suffering?

Did it witness tragedy?

 

I imagine some homes with people in them 

can be crazy, insane or mad…

can be happy, joyful, supportive 

can be sorrowful or sad.

 

But as I stand here staring at this old house

with it’s falling roof and decaying walls

I have to wonder if an abandoned house

isn’t the saddest home of all.

What is it about an abandoned house…

neglected…empty…just sitting there?

What is it about its vulnerability that makes us stop and stare?

 

Perhaps what makes us pause a while…as across this land we roam

is that we realize it’s not just an abandoned house…

it is an abandoned home.

 

It’s sad to think this crumbling house has lost its soul…its heart.

And sad to think this one-time home has been left to fall apart

 

When we see it isolated…lonely…deserted…

it allows our imagination to flow

Since there’s no-one there to tell its story…

there’s so much we’ll never know

 

But we know there was a story here…

one we cannot disregard…

What happened to the family who lived inside it?

Did children play in its front yard?

 

Did joy and happiness fill its walls?
Was their laughter…love…and glee?
Did it see its share of pain and suffering?

Did it witness tragedy?

 

I imagine some homes with people in them 

can be crazy, insane or mad…

can be happy, joyful, supportive 

can be sorrowful or sad.

 

But as I stand here staring at this old house

with it’s falling roof and decaying walls

I have to wonder if an abandoned house

isn’t the saddest home of all.


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THE HOSUE SPEAKS

I love to wake up early when I can feel my house’s mystique.

I love to walk her rooms in solitude and listen to her speak.

 

I imagine she is always speaking…releasing memories I can hear

but in the quiet of the morning…they come in loud and clear.

 

So many moments I recall as I silently walk her halls…

because every memory we’ve ever made here

is imbedded in her walls.

 

She has seen a host of celebrations…everyone she stores away

so in the morning, when I stop to listen…she has quite a lot to say.

 

All the memories created here…babies crawling on these floors

toddlers walking, children singing…teenagers slamming doors.

 

Family dinners, birthdays, good times…the accomplishments…the miscues.

This house has seen much happiness…and her share of sadness too.

 

It’s as if time has been suspended…I know not why…or how

But I can hear and see and smell and taste these memories

as if they’re happening…right now.

 

Each step I take there is a memory, 

on each piece of furniture

behind each door

And I gladly pick and choose them…like a child in a candy store.

 

Realizing soon enough the day will begin…

for when sunlight replaces nightfall…

I know these wonderful cherished old memories…

will fade back into the walls.

 

Perhaps that’s why I love waking up early

not knowing what memories will be there when I arrive

not knowing as my house speaks to me…

what memories will come alive.

 

 

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WALK AROUND THE HOUSE

I took a walk around our house this morning

And, as through each room I roamed,

I silently wondered to myself

when did this house become our home?

 

I passed the little chair Deborah sat in 

at her house when she was small.

Our children and grandchildren have sat there too…

It now sits unused…against the wall.

 

I passed what looks like an ordinary door…

in the the hallway…painted white

On the other side…a family history

recording years in terms of height.

 

On a desk in the back bedroom 

as I step in past the door

I’m drawn to a picture of Deborah’s Mom and Dad…

remembering when they once waked these floors…

 

In this same room sits an old trunk 

which is not quite what it appears

for that trunk is filled with a host memories

we’ve made in 30 years…. 

 

I remembered how this old house was just a house

the first day that we spied her….

I think, perhaps, she started to become our home

with our first memory made inside her…

 

And how all the succeeding memories

no matter how big or small

have filled this house with wonder

as they painted themselves upon the walls.

 

And I had to stop and smile

in every room I roamed…

recalling all the memories

 

that have made this house…our home.


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