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Browsing Tag: #home
These old men Mountains Men of the mountains Mountains made these men The ground cold into May Wet till October And then the gold is abundant Don’t pan- just look up Salamanders scurry And squirrels scold And bear chew Lazy, arrogant Brides with wildflower halos And dulcimers on the porch Chicken and dumplins on Sunday After Bible thumpin’ amens Old baying dogs with black patches Flogging roosters Rusted tools hanging forgotten But don’t kill the black snake Didja hear about Shorty Gonna run ’em a cobbler Porch swing’s squeakin’ What to do with all this squash Yes ma’am And thank you Please don’t trouble yourself Prettiest quilt I ever laid eyes on There’s watermelon And sweet tea Cousins are all comin’ too Just wanna drop in this heat We’re headed to the lake To the funeral home Just want to set a spell All we do is run run run Rain’s on the way Mail’s late Kids comin’ in for Thanksgiving Can’t wait to get to the beach So green it’ll hurt your eyes So humid you can wring the water off of you So slow you think you’ll never get there And everybody’s talkin’ ’bout football Stay Southern, y’all Love from Appalachia, ~Amy…
Home is a relative term. If you’re in your hometown and someone asks where you live, you will perhaps give them specific directions. Say I see you at Food City in Seymour, I would tell you I live behind the high school. If I’m in Knoxville, home is Seymour. If I’m in Atlanta, home is Knoxville. If I’m in Asheville, or Savannah, or Charleston, I might care to explain I’m from a small town near Dollywood. People from away are always fascinated that I’m from the same county as Dolly Parton. If I’m on the West Coast, home is simply “Tennessee”. If I were to travel to Ireland, “home” would be the United States. I’m arrogant, but not so much that I would expect them to point out the South on a map of the world. And if aliens abduct me, planet Earth would be close enough for me. So if you move away from where you’re born, but leave behind your family to cleave to your beloved, of perhaps to just a new life, then you hopefully have two homes. Hence the phrase, “Going home for Christmas,” the same as going home after a long day at the office. Home is where the heart is. For years, home was where my horse was, because my heart was my horse. I’ve been home…
Walked in the door, the house smells like pork roast & woodsmoke, a delicious combination that instantly brought to mind my mamaw’s house. Lightning Bug came charging up the stairs to greet me before I could even set my purse down. Open my package, & it’s my new bracelet! Life is so much better at home…
Most women, I think, grow up dreaming of having a baby. They think about it all the time, starting with a fantasy about what their husband will look like, where they will meet & fall in love, what type of fairytale princess wedding gown they will wear & the flowers they will carry…then where they will make a home. Depending on their husband’s profession, these women may be envisioning a plush apartment in the city, or a colonial with a picket fence in the suburbs. They may even be aspiring to a grand greek revival mansion on the river. I can identify thus far. But when they start thinking about the little ones…and they’ve got the names picked out & what order they may have them, & how they’ll decorate their bedrooms…well, that’s where my dreams always ended & another one started. As surely y’all know about my proclivity to devouring books, it should come as no surprise that I dreamed of my own library. Walls of books. Stacks & shelves towering on every available surface, too many to count. Books of all types: old, classic, leatherbound editions; mass produced paperback fiction; history books; college textbooks; journals; coffee table photographic books, you name it. I wanted them ALL. I wanted a red wall, & a warm rug, & a leather chair. I wanted a Tiffany lamp & a box of kleenex when emotions were…
