The Hancock-Henderson Quill, Inc.
I've been sitting on the front porch swing after fixin' up several chickens, makin' noodles and canning a big batch for winter eating. Now I am thinkin' I should be make'n some home made bread to have with the sweet apple butter I had canned last year. I am on my last jar and lucky it's apple season and I can gather apples for more, plus applesause, and apple cobbler.
I'll get to the bread makin' Thursday morning bright and early. Oh how good that bread will taste for breakfast with bacon and eggs and a helping of fried potatoes and onion in Gram's cast iron skillet.
My sweet Grandma Beulah was a plump, jolly, hardworking simple woman, and made everything from scratch. She was the most hospitable person and often had dropins for Sunday dinner. Gram's homemade butter and jams and bread were always on the table with a big bowl of mashed potatoes, gravy, and fried chicken or other favorites, and it was told her pies were the best in the county. After dinner, Grandpa Walter would be puffin' on his pipe while others played games of checkers or cards in the parlor or everyone would end up outside in chairs watchin' the youngin's play and do stunts in the yard. Sometimes the adults and kids would play croquet.
Today everyone feels like they are "stuck" at home with the COVID-19 pandemic. Grams and Gramps never traveled much like folks do today. Garden, home and farm chores kept them home and busy and they were glad to be home and relaxin' in the evening.
I'm figuring that getting back to gardening, canning and fixing those delicious foods like Grandma did, just might take everyone's minds off themselves and their predicament of being "stuck at home". Grams always was a hummin' or singin' around the house, and so was my mama, and just as busy as bees plantin', weedin', gatherin' eggs, washin', sewin,' and make'n the kitchen smell oh so sweet. We's always pokin' our noses in ta see what was cookin'.
Now it is foolish ta get yourselves all worked up because ya can't go like ya did. I hope ya don't think I am unkind sayin' that, but mama explained: "Home is where the Heart is, but it takes a lot of live'n there, and ya can't always be run'in off hither and yon."
She would point to the poem that was hangin' on the parlor wall called "HOME" and have me read it. It went like this:
Home - by Edgar Albert Guest
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.
Hope'n you can enjoy being home and the folks in it and you're keepin' busy while hummin' and singin'. Enjoy harvest. Do something for others. Maybe take a friend something you've made.
See ya in church! Bring your Bible. -Love, Aunt Polly