The Mountain Laurel
The Journal of Mountain Life

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from the
Heart of the Blue Ridge

Going Home

By Tilitha Waicekauskas © 1992

Issue: July-August-September, 1992

Down Memory Lane a house still stands,
A house whose name is "Home,"
And that's a name it understands
No matter where I roam.

And just as fifty years ago,
that house is old and plain,
But from its windows, sweet and low,
There comes a sweet refrain.

The old piano's being played
As all the family sings,
That sound I know will never fade
For in my heart it rings.

The big bay window on the west
Is where my Mama sews,
And when she's tired and stops to rest,
She can see her rambling rose.

And out in front a pine tree stands
And makes a welcome shade
For me - a girl with dirty hands
From mud pies being made.

And there's a puppy, small and bold,
With floppy ears of black,
A kitten just for me to hold,
And a pony to ride bareback.

Behind the house the hollyhocks,
The zinnias and marigolds
Grow beside the four o'clocks,
and the roses the garden fence holds.

Two boys are there with honest eyes,
One brown and the other blue.
They're watching airplanes cross the skies,
For they have their dreams, too.

And in the house, three teenage girls
Help Mama while they sing.
They help each other fix their curls,
- They help with everything.

They talk about their wishes
While they're helping Mama cook,
And while they wash the dishes
Emily always reads a book.

There's always laughter in the air
And Daddy's in his prime.
The smell of baking bread is there
- It's almost supper time.

And even though the times are hard
Our supper will be good
A cow is grazing in the yard
Who helps provide the food.

And when the table has been laid,
We all will gather round,
And while the blessing's being said,
It will be the only sound.

But then we'll pass the food and feast
By the light of the setting sun.
It smells so good, like spice and yeast,
- And I'll have another bun!

We'll light the lamp and read awhile
Before it's time for bed.
I'll sit on Daddy's lap and smile
While prayers are being said.

And if I listen I can hear
The sound of the whispering pine.
That whisper echoes clear and dear
Through this old heart of mine.

But all those sounds are echoes,
And those days are lost in time,
But even so, my heart still knows
I can go there anytime.

Though many years have passed, I know
That no matter where I roam,
I can close my eyes and always go
- In my dreams I can go - Home.