I chose this poem today because I have always loved the truth of its words.
It takes a heap of living to make a house a home.
To me a house is just a structure where you live, but a home is something altogether different. A home is a place where you feel safe and you know you are loved. It is the one place that when you go back to it, they have to let you in.
Not every house is a home; some are just a place to sleep at night, but it is my wish that everyone should have a place they can call home.
The poem is called “
It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home” and was written by Edgar A. Guest.
This poem was taken from the following web site: http://home.att.net/~mysmerelda/bestofguest.html
It Takes A Heap of Livin...
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 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; and' if ye could ye'd keep the thumb-marks on the door.
Ye've got t' weep t' make it home, ye've got t' sit and sigh
An' watch beside a loved one's bed, an' know that Death is nigh;
An' in the stillnes o' the night t'see Death's angel come,
An' close the eyes o' her that smiled, an' leave her sweet voice dumb.
For these are scenes that grip the heart, an' when your 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 to sing an' dance fer years, ye've got t' romp and 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 apart o' ye, suggestin'someone dear
Who used t' love 'em long ago, and trained 'em just t' run
The way they do, so's they would get the early mornin' sun;
Ye've got to love each brick an' stone from cellar up t' dome;
It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home.
I thought you would like the blonde joke, but there were only two contestants. Fuzzy’s Dad said you could tell if a blonde had visited your blog "because she left the following comments, please use more pictures, I can’t read it because you type too fast and don’t use such big words."
