Home

Home is where the heart is. Home is where the Hearth is. For me, I want to imagine a warm little cabin in the midst of a small clearing in a big woods. Inside are rocking chairs, goosedown feather beds/comforters, fresh milk still warm from the cow, and bright red skivvies with the hatch in the back. Reading outloud to my granddaughter, now 1, about the old tales of long ago. Where has story telling gone? Sitting by the homefire, telling stories. When grandpa stole the bobcat cub and wrapped it in his coat. The mother bobcat caught the scent and chased him on his cob pony all the way home. The bulldog set up a ruckus when he heard them coming and as the old mother cat let out a squall, the pony leaped up on the back porch and jumped into the kitchen and the bulldog went under the porch. His mother heard it all and cought the pony before it took the cook stove out. Grandpa was a great rider, but with the cub in his coat, he fell of as they went through the door and he slammed the door behind him.
The old cat squalled and stalked around the house. Grandpa was flogged with the broom for such a stunt and when the cub was found, his momma knew what had happened. She told grandpa go to the upstairs window and lower his coat down with the kitten.

So where have all the stories gone?
Sitting here in warm knit footies, a small lap blanket, warm tea and the fire is crackling in the hearth. The dog at my feet, the cat warming my lap. All seems restful. Good night.