Archive for August 13th, 2017


A week of the sweet life (aka #vacationfortwo, #justus2, #justhubbyandme, #vacayfor2, #heandme, #roadtrip) has come to an end for hubby and I.

We travelled over one thousand five hundred kilometres, ate far to much of everything one shouldn’t, walked on sandy shorelines, stared in awe as the waves kept coming toward us, took dozens of pictures, spent precious hours with sweet people, went to sleep to the sound of pounding surf, and awoke to the noisy seagulls enjoying their morning feed on the beach.

It was all so good.

And now we are home.

We returned home to the adoration of the Wonderdog, and catching up with a daughter. We crawled into our own bed last night, delighted at the familiarity of our bed. Awoke this morning eager for the that first cup of brewed goodness, in our favourite chairs, with the Wonderdog stretched out on the floor between us.

Laundry in process, familiar, fresh air coming in the windows, life is good.

Vacation is delight, but coming home to who and what we love is the icing on the cake.

My HomeĀ 
This is the place that I love the best,
A little brown house, like a ground-bird’s nest,
Hid among grasses, and vines, and trees,
Summer retreat of the birds and bees.

The tenderest light that ever was seen
Sifts through the vine-made window screen–
Sifts and quivers, and flits and falls
On home-made carpets and gray-hung walls.

All through June the west wind free
The breath of clover brings to me.
All through the languid July day
I catch the scent of new-mown hay.

The morning-glories and scarlet vine
Over the doorway twist and twine;
And every day, when the house is still,
The humming-bird comes to the window-sill.

In the cunningest chamber under the sun
I sink to sleep when the day is done;
And am waked at morn, in my snow-white bed,
By a singing bird on the roof o’erhead.

Better than treasures brought from Rome,
Are the living pictures I see at home–
My aged father, with frosted hair,
And mother’s face, like a painting rare.

Far from the city’s dust and heat,
I get but sounds and odors sweet.
Who can wonder I love to stay,
Week after week, here hidden away,
In this sly nook that I love the best–
This little brown house like a ground-bird’s nest?

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

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