Home again, home again, jiggety-jog

nobody@ipernity.com (Dinesh) — Sat, 10 Aug 2013 11:15:14 +0000

Dinesh has posted:

Plum Tomatoes

nobody@ipernity.com (Dinesh) — Sat, 04 Nov 2023 23:55:07 +0000

Dinesh has posted:

Coloured one is Brandywine Tomato

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nobody@ipernity.com (Dinesh) — Wed, 13 May 2015 17:48:02 +0000

Dinesh has posted:

Home is where one starts from.
As we grow older the world becomes stranger,
The patterns more complicated....
In my end is my beginning.

~ T.S.Eliot

Stromboli

nobody@ipernity.com (Dinesh) — Tue, 17 Sep 2013 16:21:02 +0000

Dinesh has posted:

April 15 2009

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stromboli_(food)

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nobody@ipernity.com (Dinesh) — Mon, 22 Jul 2013 09:57:34 +0000

Dinesh has posted:

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.

"Home" ~ Edgar Albert Guest (1881-1959)

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Home again, home again, jiggety-jog

Plum Tomatoes

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Stromboli

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