Reading through posts and looking for inspiration. Quadrille poem — nope. Spoons — fascinating, but no. Gauge — zero inspiration.

Twilight! I was looking for that word just the other day!

I was trying to tell a friend about the books that I read 15 years ago in order to relate to the teenage girls I was coaching. I said to my friend, “You know, the really stupid vampire series.”

She looked at me and said dryly, “There’s a lot of them.”

“This one was like Harlequin Romance with a vampire twist,” I said.

“That describes most of them,” she said.

“They were pretty terrible,” I said.

She nodded in agreement.

But I couldn’t think of the name.

It didn’t matter. Neither of us were vampire romance fans.

But now I have the name! Twilight!

I’ll tell her tomorrow.


Wrote my post — checked that box. Way over 23 words — did NOT check that box. Sigh.

Blather · collage · Februllage

House, Home, Property

In America the word “home” is a synonym for “house“; it is a traveling concept, one which you carry around with you — your home is wherever you happen to be living. One might speak of a “development of new homes” in America; in England, such a phrase would be nonsensical, because a house, in England, is merely a “house”; “home” is an altogether broader concept, implying rootedness and long residence.

Ruth Brandon, A Capitalist Romance (1977)

I guess I’m not as American as I thought.

My parents bought an old farm in 1967. At that point in my life, I had lived on four different army bases and I have memories from two of them. My roots, however, are here, on this piece of property.

And they are deep.

When I first heard the concept of “thin places” — that Celtic-Christian idea of physical locations where the distance between heaven and earth is barely perceptible — I immediately thought of this place, from the river to the crest of the hill, where I am rooted and from which I draw strength.

It goes beyond my parents’ property. It’s this community, the streets in this town, the shores of this lake. It’s the seasons here — the rain, the snow, the blaze of color in autumn, the long days of summer, the short days of winter. It’s the fog that covers the road some mornings. It’s the whitetail deer. It’s the peepers in spring.

I move away. I come back. I move away. I come back. I’m here to stay.

“I worry about you,” my sister said to me the other day, “all alone in that big house.”

No, no — don’t worry about me.

I’m home.