Just Right At Home

Just so you know, when I use the word HOME, I mean a little house in a little town in Maine.  It’s just a little ride up the interstate, maybe about 75 minutes north of Portsmouth.  I always sleep peacefully in the house I grew up in, which is just around the corner from the house my father was born and grew up in.  Uncle Bob still lives there and that’s why I can share his big garden in the summer.  I love his garden just a little bit more than the Hampton Victory Garden.

Sure, it’s a little town.

Last night I skipped down to Faye the Barber’s little house for a visit.  She was making “horseshoes” which are these delicious little rolled pastries, hard to describe but wonderful to eat.  The moon was so bright; it made surreal shadows and I seemed to see everything with old eyes on the frigid walk home.

There’s only one little problem here at home.  No internet.  The little library, around the corner from Faye the Barber’s little house, has 24/7 wireless.   There.  No problem.

“Is that Hermie’s daughter sitting in the library garden?  What’s she doing there?  She’s waving at us.  Wave to her.”

Click. Publish.  Done.

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