So, since it was fresh on my mind, I thought we'd try our hand at writing about home.
The first home of my memory was a little farmhouse. I couldn't have been older than three...but what I remember most is the trees. So many trees plopped like green dew drops across hills that leaped for miles into the horizon. And a long set of concrete steps across a hillside where I spent many a childhood day sitting, watching, playing. And, of course, I remember the smell of my grandmother's country dinners. The friendly, wet kiss of my Uncles family dog, and how his dogs were always 'coon' dogs, full with slobbery hello's, fat bellies, and long, dangling ears.
Of course, I was raised in the south. I suppose coon dogs and country dinners is a sort of custom in these parts. The hills are a given, as are the trees, and the magnificent view of wildlife that's always just outside one's window.
This song reminds me quite a bit of my home, and of my childhood. The way it was to grow up, our lives as they were nestled into the valleys and hills alongside the Appalachia Mountains. There were no busy city streets or lights. No high-rise buildings and fancy boulevards. And oftentimes, the sound of a thunderstorm was the music we danced to.
Below is a poem about 'home' written by Amy Clampitt:
On the Disadvantages of Central Heating
cold nights on the farm, a sock-shod stove-warmed flatiron slid under the covers, mornings a damascene- sealed bizarrerie of fernwork decades ago now waking in northwest London, tea brought up steaming, a Peak Frean biscuit alongside to be nibbled as blue gas leaps up singing decades ago now damp sheets in Dorset, fog-hung habitat of bronchitis, of long hot soaks in the bathtub, of nothing quite drying out till next summer: delicious to think of hassocks pulled in close, toasting- forks held to coal-glow, strong-minded small boys and big eager sheepdogs muscling in on bookish profundities now quite forgotten the farmhouse long sold, old friends dead or lost track of, what’s salvaged is this vivid diminuendo, unfogged by mere affect, the perishing residue of pure sensation
Now it's your turn! The challenge for you this week is to write about what 'home' means to you. Where is home? Is there anything, in particular, you are homesick for? What/where is the first 'home' of your memory?
Have fun and enjoy yourself.
Write with me, or alone. If you choose to write and share, add your link to the comments.