September 22, 2012

...Until somehow yer soul is sort o’ wrapped round everything...

It's Saturday morning, and I should be sleeping in, snuggled under my comforter.  It's overcast, cold and rainy out....a perfect morning to relax and take it easy.  And yet...I was raised to clean house on Saturday mornings.  My mother would put on an LP (remember those?!) of the Boston Pops, and the cleaning would commence, music to scrub and dust by provided courtesy of Arthur Fiedler.  Every time I hear the Sabre Dance by Khachaturian I want to grab a broom and start sweeping!  There is something so satisfying about a clean house--your spirits lift and it is easier to relax and enjoy your surroundings.  I think the physical activity is part of the magic--whisking through the house on a mission to restore order gets your heart pumping and it's hard to dwell on sad or negative thoughts while you are physically pushing yourself.  And the reward at the end?  Your home becomes your sanctuary, the place where you can retreat from the world and all its worries and sadness and find respite from the storms of life.    Dorothy was right...'there's no place like home.


by Edgar Guest

It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home,
A heap o’ sun an’ shadder, an’ ye sometimes have t’ roam
Afore ye really ’preciate the things ye lef’ behind,
An’ hunger fer ’em somehow, with ’em allus on yer mind.
It don’t make any differunce how rich ye get t’ be,
How much yer chairs an’ tables cost, how great yer luxury;
It ain’t home t’ ye, though it be the palace of a king,
Until somehow yer soul is sort o’ wrapped round everything.

Home ain’t a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute;
Afore it’s home there’s got t’ be a heap o’ livin’ in it;
Within the walls there’s got t’ be some babies born, and then
Right there ye’ve got t’ bring ‘em up t’ women good, an’ men;
And gradjerly, as time goes on, ye find ye wouldn’t part
With anything they ever used—they’ve grown into yer heart:
The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore
Ye hoard; an’ if ye could ye’d keep the thumbmarks on the door.

Ye’ve got t’ weep t’ make it home, ye’ve got t’ sit an’ sigh
An’ watch beside a loved one’s bed, an’ know that Death is nigh;
An’ in the stillness o’ the night t’ see Death’s angel come,
An’ close the eyes o’ her that smiled, an’ leave her sweet voice dumb.
Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an’ when yer tears are dried,
Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an’ sanctified;
An’ tuggin’ at ye always are the pleasant memories
O’ her that was an’ is no more—ye can’t escape from these.

Ye’ve got t’ sing an’ dance fer years, ye’ve got t’ romp an’ play,
An’ learn t’ love the things ye have by usin’ ’em each day;
Even the roses ’round the porch must blossom year by year
Afore they ’come a part o’ ye, suggestin’ someone dear
Who used t’ love ’em long ago, an’ trained ’em jes’ t’ run
The way they do, so’s they would get the early mornin’ sun;
Ye’ve got t’ love each brick an’ stone from cellar up t’ dome:
It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home.
Happy weekend!

1 comment:

  1. Martha, did you know that Edgar Guest was my dad's godfather? Yep. My dad grew up in Detroit and his dad was great friends with Edgar Guest - they hung out together and played poker together. Dad remembers him as a wonderful guy (which you can tell by reading his poetry.)