June 20, 2006


When I was trying to come up for a name for my blog home I started thinking about my own home. I started asking myself, what really makes a house a home? Whenever I think of the word "home" I think of my grandparents house. Entering in you could almost feel the love wrapping you up like a cozy blanket. That was the best feeling in the world and one I hope my family will always feel about our "home." When my grandparents left I had to go and pack up their house. I remember feeling such emptiness and lonliness because although all the "things" were still there my beloved grandparents were not, and they were the ones that made it home, without them it was just four walls. It is because of that that I lovingly dedicate this poem to them:

The fireside glow has lost it's charm
Without some hands to keep so warm.
And no one to see the flickering light
To marvel in it's beautiful sight.

The apron sits hanging on it's hook
But serves no purpose without the cook.
No loving hands to bake the bread
No one to sit down and bow their heads.

The piano stands silent alone in the room
Because there's no one there to play a nice tune.
It yearns to play a sweet melody
But unfortunately I'm sorry that it's not to be.

The clock on the wall no longer tells time
There's no one there to hear it's nice chime.
No one to care if it's morning or night
The key needs a hand to wind it tight.

The rocking chair sits quiet and still
Longing for someone to "sit for a spell."
"Come rock me" it says and "tell a good yarn"
Or rock a sweet babe so it won't be alarmed.

The bible sits unopened by the bed
There's no one there for it to be read.
Or prayer and praises lifting high
Or songs being sung of the sweet by and by.

Over in the corner is the down featherbed
But there's no one there to lay down their sweet head.
The quilts are piled "oh so deep"
But no one is there to fall fast asleep.

There's no loving smile as you enter the door
No arms to embrace, to hug and adore.
The door's still the same and the welcome mat's out
But it's the people within that I'm talking about.

It's the people who make up the heart of the home
And when they are gone it's a house all alone.
The laughter and tears, the joy and the pain
Are all only memories that can remain.

But tucked in my heart and always will be
A lesson was learned as now I do see.
A house is made of brick and stone
It's the love inside that makes it a home.



Hulda said...

Hi, I found your blog via Lisa`s, and I like it. Nice pictures.

Deb said...

I love the poem ~ how true!

Zoe said...

Hello from England. I just found your blog today. Lovely photos.

Susan P. said...

Hulda, I'm so glad you came for a visit. Please do come again!

Deb, thanks for the kind word about the poem. My daughter is in the process of cross stitching it. She plans on putting it in her home someday. Will post a pic when it's completed!

Zoe, thank you for visiting my blog home. My daughter went for a visit to your beautiful country last year and had the most wonderful time!

gentle spirit said...

I just found your blog coming from Mrs. Wilt's.The name of my blog is www.a-place-called-home.com! That was pretty coincidental:)I've enjoyed your blog today. Love, Kim

Susan P. said...

Kim, I am so glad you could visit with me today. That is a coincidance about the names! If you read my poem you will know why I picked it. I guess great minds think alike:) LOL I will have to come and visit your Place Called Home soon. BTW, I love your user name!
Blessings to you.