“Home! And this is my room – and you are all here! And I’m not going to leave here ever again, because I love you all! And — Oh, Auntie Em —–
there’s no place like home!”

They were the years between 2001 and 2005. The place was a country home in a valley, sitting on 4 wooded acres. To us, it was Heaven on Earth, to be serenaded each morning by dozens of yellow finches, cardinals, Canadian geese, red-headed woodpeckers, and all sorts of creatures we had never seen before. To take our afternoon tea on a massive wooden deck, surrounded by nothing but the whispering sounds of falling leaves or an approaching distant rain-shower, was our daily moment of re-connecting with one another; our time to unwind from a day of bending to the wishes of others. We didn’t leave willingly.

They are the years from 2006 to the present. Life has a way of delivering the unexpected; sometimes loss of loved ones; other times, loss of livelihoods. For us, it was the latter. Home for us now is the upper apartment of a 112 year old brick building, lovingly dubbed “the penthouse”. Our morning serenades are sung by the giant refuse trucks that make their daily rounds at 6:00 AM, or the sound barrier shattering wail of the fire engines racing to save a burning building somewhere. Once in awhile, there’ll be a morning dove perched on the high wire, if it hasn’t been frightened away by the city commuters arriving to claim their parking space on our concrete backyard. Devoid of green grass and trees, we try to find humor in the fact that we longer have need of a lawnmower.

Betsy and Alden are house-sitting this week for friends who are vacationing some place warm with lots of water and sandy beaches. There’s is a country home on a big lot. Once again, taking morning coffee out on the deck, enjoying the serenade of distant birds and watching the wildlife frolic in the tall dewy grasses. Sitting at night, seeing a sky full of stars, it feels like we are in Big Sky country. It feels like Heaven on Earth, and we long for a home in the country.

But work was piling up – I had to return to the penthouse. The kitties (nitty-nats) were perched at the top of the stairs, patiently awaiting our return. Mrs. Morning Dove was perched on the high wire, waiting for a soft-spoken word. The answering machine is flashing with messages from loved ones….”where’ve you been?”. It smelled like us; it felt like us; it was home. It is home. Just like Dorothy, there is no place like home.

And though we long to live in the country again someday, we know our place on this earth is temporary, and we make of it what we can, and we recognize that a serenade comes in many forms.

See you in store,

Betsy