Mar 15, 2014

A little place by the river

I have long believed that a stay away from home, over a long period of time, only increases one's desire to return to it.

Therefore I think it very healthy to indulge one's self once or twice a year in a little trip away from the home where your existence has been wrought. It puts things terribly back into perspective and you'll wonder, after that long period of time, why you ever left home in the first place.

See song: Back in Your Own Backyard - Vera Lynn

Home is the familiar place where you have loved and been loved, laughed and cried, and it knows you just about as well as you know it.

Home could be the tent where you got angry at your mother because for some silly reason you thought she was being unfair, and then after a few guilty, self-pitied hours you returned to her to ask forgiveness.

Home is a place that has seen your worst and you've given your best. Tried and failed. Rejoiced and wept. Loved and lied. And it takes you back anyway, holding the roof up for you and keeping out the gushing rain.

In short, home is where you've lived all your life with the people you belong to. And according to a song I love - "to face the future with another who means more than any other is to belong".

I shall always be grateful to return home. And heavens, whatever shall I do when I have to get married and move away forever?

 It was a whirl of anime episodes and long, lazy days, and feeding geese, and watching the Missouri River roll by far out of my window, staying with William.

Big brother has been away these last two months, more like three now. Interning at the state capitol. And I got to stay with him his last week there. It's way out in the middle of the prairie, this place. I thought it strange to be so far from home and still be in the same state.

There isn't much out the living room window, but I can see the river, and the land lady come and go in her shiny black car.

This is where I've lived for the past week. Books and pieces of paper, crumpled or torn from a notebook scattered everywhere. I'm sure William thinks I'm quite messy. I wouldn't say messy, just "assorted, with a chance of clutter". And I rather like seeing things strewn about, especially things I connect with stories and writing, and being a writer. It makes things happier, and important.

I've got my own wardrobe, too. I'm smiling, and yes, I'll give you permission to be envious. I haven't knocked on it yet. I'd rather live hoping and wondering than disappointed.

There's a small little kitchen, and we live in the basement of an old Victorian house, just a few blocks away from the capitol. I rather like the look of kitchens in the afternoon light.

The stove in the corner is my favorite, with the string light above it. My little yellow teapot looks quite at home there. *slips off to get her cup of tea*

It makes it so homey.

And it's the most delightful thing, right above the stove are shelves for your tea! It's my most favorite spot in the whole apartment. Except for maybe the little nook under the stairs, behind the television.

Got some wellies before I went away. My first wellies. I love the way our coats look with shoes underneath, behind the front door. Also William's Samurai sword. For in case the burgler decides to show up.

It can get quite noisy in the laundry/bathroom. But it just makes you look a little bit more industrious when you've been sitting around all day looking at art and writing stories.

The stairs are old and they creak when William comes down in the morning. I believe I'll miss the way they look in the light.

And there's the mysterious door at the top of the stairs. I've only been through it once, but it's still mysterious. On the other side is the lounge and the strange world of the land lady, and the other border named David. I've met him. He's nice. He's an intern, too.

We're going home tomorrow. I won't be sad to leave . . . maybe the wardrobe I'll be sad to leave, but--It's been an adventure of sorts. I've listened with fear and trembling to the land lady walking about the creaking floors above me, terrified I've done something wrong. I've trodden the city life of sidewalks and crosswalks and nice people not running me over with their cars. Self checkouts at Wal-Mart and hearing cars zooming by outside on the street. But now, home sounds lovely and marvelous. Also I miss my dogs, and walking alone on the prairie where there isn't anything but the wind and grass, and mud.


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