Home, Sweet Home

by Mary Jo

“Home” is not exactly an unexplored concept.  It’s pondered in poetry, where Robert Frost famously said, “Home is the place where, when you have to go there, They have to take you in."

Music—everything from Dvorak’s Ninth Symphony, with its “Going Home Theme,” to “I’ll be Home for Christmas.” 

It’s also a significant theme in fiction, perhaps in romance more than most.  We write about love, after all—finding the “home of the heart.” 

Often that’s reflected in finding a physical home as well.  In LaVyrle Spencer’s wonderful Morning Glory, the hero, convict Will Parker, has always been desperately alone and wants nothing more than to have a family of his own.  (He finds it with widowed Elly and her boys in pre-WWII Georgia.) 

Certainly the desire to find a home is prominent in my own stories.  The theme is probably most explicit in Silk and Shadows, which starts with the words “He called himself Peregrine, the wanderer, and he came to London for revenge.”  The story ends when the heroine says, “Welcome home, wanderer, welcome home.”  (Subtlety has never been my strong point. <g>)

I’d say that most of my books have that theme of finding a home that’s both a place and person, and I think this is true of most romance writers.  We write about people finding happiness, after all, and home is often a large part of that. 

But what is “home?”  I started thinking about the topic (resulting in this blog) after a discussion on a writers’ loop. 

To start with, home is a physical place, and some people are born in the wrong place.  Several eons ago I read a YA novel where two high school classes, one in Kansas and one in Washington State, do a swap to each other’s states.  One of the Kansan protagonists saw the sea and walked straight into it up to her knees.  All her life, she’d been missing sand and fog and sea gulls and she hadn’t known it.  She found where she was going to move when she got out of school.

The same girl was startled when one of  the boys from the Washington class was entranced by Kansas.  The sunshine, the golden fields, the vast blue dome of the sky—they spoke to him.  He decide to apply to the University of Kansas.  He’d found his home. 

Physical place makes a huge difference, but even a great place isn’t necessarily right all the time.  I love the deserts and mountains of the Southwest.  Love to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there—I’d miss the greenery and it’s too far from the ocean.  The rolling hills of my native Western New York are beautiful, but snow is only fun for a while.  Then it gets tedious.  It’s not surprising how many snowbirds from that area head south for the winter. 

Home can be about work.  Some jobs can be done anywhere, but others tie people to particular places.  If you want to work in tv or movie production, you probably need to be in Southern California.  If you want to be an editor for one of the big publishers, that probably means New York.  And if you want to be a Supreme Court Justice or member of Congress, you’ll be spending a lot of the year in Washington, DC.  And through work, we often create strong friendships.  (A writer’s professional peers are scattered all over the place, but cyberspace becomes the place where we meet and socialize.)

Home is also about society and culture.  A friend of a friend always complained about the U. S.  She wasn’t happy to be an American.  After college she went to England, and found that she’d come home.  She has since acquired a British accent, husband, and family, and is happy with all of them. 

Even more than the general culture, of course, home is about the people.  Our nearest and dearest, both family and our friends.  The latter often become the family we choose in addition to our blood family.  (And sometimes the families we choose suit us better than the ones we’re born into, but that’s a whole ‘nother topic.)

Travel is wonderful, but it does complicate the question of where home is.  I sometimes envy people who grow up in one place and never feel the least need to leave.  Friends and family are right there, and their roots fun very deep.  Baltimore is like that. 

But for someone who has lived in several places, it gets harder.  “How ya going to keep those boys down on the farm, after they’ve seen Paree?” 

Children who move around a lot when they’re young, such as military kids, end up with too many choices.  Consider a girl who was born in Maine and loved the clean air and beautiful landscape.  Later her family moves to Berlin, and she loveds the European culture and sense of antiquity.  Then on to California—hot sun, dramatic desert and mountains and beaches, a laidback culture with lots of diversity.  Maybe she goes to college in New York City and loves the excitement and vast cultural opportunities.  And maybe she has grandparents in Maryland and Kentucky. 

So where is home?  Where would she live if she could choose any place she wants?  Wherever she lives, she’ll probably be missing things about other places.  I’d say the solution is to take a lot of vacations. <g> 

For me, I think home is most strongly connected to friends and family.  But it’s also place.  I love Maryland’s four seasons and I like having lived in this neighborhood long enough to know what stores to visit, what places to avoid during rush hour. 

Think of how hard it is to leave home for another country, even when it seems like the best decision.  (The famous painting, "The Last of England" by Ford Madox Brown, captures the grief of a couple leaving family, friends, and everything they've ever known for another country.)

What about you?  What means home to you?  And if you could live anywhere you want—where would that be?  And why?

In reading terms—do you like to see your romances end with the couple strongly connected to a particular place?  Or are you okay with them taking off to the wild blue yonder for new adventures as long as they’re together? 

Since this the topic is home, I’ll give away a copy of Silk and Shadows to someone who comments between now and midnight Sunday. 

And may your home always be a happy one—

Mary Jo (on the 22nd anniversary of starting her first book)

PS: Please excuse the run on paragraphs.  Typepad is in one of its hissy fit moods where it refuses to let me put spaces between. 

Comments

[talpianna]

The songs of exile are particularly beautiful--people forced to leave their beloved homes either for political reasons (the Irish Wild Geese) or economic ones (the victims of the Scottish "Clearances"). I collect Scottish music, and a fair bit of Irish, and they make me weep even though the closest I ever got to Scotland was Knightsbridge.

Here is my favorite depiction of home:

It was one of these mysterious fairy calls from out the void that suddenly reached Mole in the darkness, making him tingle through and through with its very familiar appeal, even while yet he could not clearly remember what it was. He stopped dead in his tracks, his nose searching hither and thither in its efforts to recapture the fine filament, the telegraphic current, that had so strongly moved him. A moment, and he had caught it again; and with it this time came recollection in fullest flood.

Home! That was what they meant, those caressing appeals, those soft touches wafted through the air, those invisible little hands pulling and tugging, all one way! Why, it must be quite close by him at that moment, his old home that he had hurriedly forsaken and never sought again, that day when he first found the river! And now it was sending out its scouts and its messengers to capture him and bring him in. Since his escape on that bright morning he had hardly given it a thought, so absorbed had he been in his new life, in all its pleasures, its surprises, its fresh and captivating experiences. Now, with a rush of old memories, how clearly it stood up before him, in the darkness! Shabby indeed, and small and poorly furnished, and yet his, the home he had made for himself, the home he had been so happy to get back to after his day's work. And the home had been happy with him, too, evidently, and was missing him, and wanted him back, and was telling him so, through his nose, sorrowfully, reproachfully, but with no bitterness or anger; only with plaintive reminder that it was there, and wanted him
.......................................................
Poor Mole stood alone in the road, his heart torn asunder, and a big sob gathering, gathering, somewhere low down inside him, to leap up to the surface presently, he knew, in passionate escape. But even under such a test as this his loyalty to his friend stood firm. Never for a moment did he dream of abandoning him. Meanwhile, the wafts from his old home pleaded, whispered, conjured, and finally claimed him imperiously. He dared not tarry longer within their magic circle. With a wrench that tore his very heartstrings he set his face down the road and followed submissively in the track of the Rat, while faint, thin little smells, still dogging his retreating nose, reproached him for his new friendship and his callous forgetfulness.
...................................................................
The Mole subsided forlornly on a tree-stump and tried to control himself, for he felt it surely coming. The sob he had fought with so long refused to be beaten. Up and up, it forced its way to the air, and then another, and another, and others thick and fast; till poor Mole at last gave up the struggle, and cried freely and helplessly and openly, now that he knew it was all over and he had lost what he could hardly be said to have found.

The Rat, astonished and dismayed at the violence of Mole's paroxysm of grief, did not dare to speak for a while. At last he said, very quietly and sympathetically, `What is it, old fellow? Whatever can be the matter? Tell us your trouble, and let me see what I can do.'

Poor Mole found it difficult to get any words out between the upheavals of his chest that followed one upon another so quickly and held back speech and choked it as it came. `I know it's a-- shabby, dingy little place,' he sobbed forth at last, brokenly: `not like--your cosy quarters--or Toad's beautiful hall--or Badger's great house--but it was my own little home--and I was fond of it--and I went away and forgot all about it--and then I smelt it suddenly--on the road, when I called and you wouldn't listen, Rat--and everything came back to me with a rush--and I WANTED it!--O dear, O dear!--and when you WOULDN'T turn back, Ratty--and I had to leave it, though I was smelling it all the time--I thought my heart would break.--We might have just gone and had one look at it, Ratty--only one look--it was close by--but you wouldn't turn back, Ratty, you wouldn't turn back! O dear, O dear!'

[Maggie Robinson]

Lovely post. Are you that Maine girl, Mary Jo? I grew up in New York, but could never go back, live in the western mountains of Maine now---although I used to live on the coast and prefer it. You can't go wrong with the Atlantic for a neighbor. I'm happy where I am, although the winter has been way beyond tedious this year. In an ideal and financially flush world, I'd split my time between Maine, where some of my girls are, and Key West, where my son is...with lots of shopping trips to Boston, where the youngest daughter lives. Home to me really is family, being near the children and grandchildren.

[Kate]

Hi Mary Jo,
Home used to be place and family. Having recently moved it is more about family. My children to be exact and husband. Much of my family remains back in MI. I'm in MN and have marvelled for a long time over the pioneers who could move thosands of miles away from family knowing that going back wasn't really an option. I'm a history major so I've read quite a few stories along those lines. My compensation to myself is that it is at least possible to visit and stay in touch more often. I am having fun teaching my children about the importance of family as a safe place to start from. I don't anticipate them sticking around but I do believe they will come for visits.
Thanks for the interesting topic.

[Gretchen F]

Oh Talpianna! I love The Wind in the Willows! That passage is truly one of the best depictions of the feelings for home... I think home can be more than one place- there is the home we have now, usually one we have made for ourselves wherever circumstances have led us to settle, and there is that lost home of our childhood- a place we remember but cannot return to, because time has changed it so much. I live only a couple of miles from the farmhouse where I grew up- but the farmland is now a subdivision, and there is a strip mall where we used to go sledding, and the woods have made way for development. The old house, built in 1875, is still standing but has been remodeled, and the barn was torn down long ago. The "home" that existed in that house is long gone. But the feeling of that home now exists at the holiday gatherings where I get together with my siblings and the younger generation- so home truly is where your heart is, I guess.

[Janga]

There are two definitions of home in Frost's "The Death of the Hired Man." The line you quoted is certainly the more famous, Mary Jo, but I have always preferred the wife's definition:“I should have called it / Something you somehow haven’t to deserve.” I guess I feel that love's grace rather than love's duty is closer to the way I see "home."

[theo]

Thank you for an essay that has made me, for the first time, understand why I choose the stories to read that I do.

I read a series by a wonderful romance author who finished her last book in the series with the couple being traveling vagabonds, he having been cooped up inside a stone prison for hundreds of years. He wanted to enjoy the freedom to go where he would and of course, the heroine happily agreed. It bothered me a bit, that ending, though I never really considered why.

Now, I understand.

I seem to be drawn to the type of story, regardless of genre except that it's fiction, that has the ending centered in some way around home. I don't know why. Perhaps because much of my home life growing up wasn't the most pleasant and these fictional, happily-ever-after-in-front-of-the-home-hearth stories have a special appeal to me that I wasn't aware of.

I live now on the property I grew up on, though the 12 X 12 house I grew up in is gone and a new one stands in it's place. But it's not the house that makes it home for me. It's the area, the wildlife, the familiar. If I had to choose a place to live and this place was not an option, I would have to choose Glasgow. I've never been, but my gran and grandsire made it so real for me growing up. It was the home in my mind I escaped to when things became so difficult in the real world.

Home. Yes, thank you, for helping me to see and understand why that is such a strong pull for me in the stories I read and why they seem to offer, for me, the most satisfying ending.

nm

[Katy Cooper]

I'm a military brat who lived everywhere from Hawaii to Turkey. When I moved to eastern MA in my late teens, I felt as if I'd come home...and I've lived here ever since. I love how the year scrolls through light and temperature, flora and fauna, so that June is a different sensory experience than August (never mind June v. December, or August v. February). I love the long, long days of summer, even though they're balanced out by the short, short days of winter. I love the sneaky rejuvenation of this time of year, when if you look closely you can see the nascent buds on the trees...but you have to look closely. I love it when the baby leaves burst out and the trees are fuzzed in pale, bright green. I love the bright hard days of October, when taking a deep breath is more like taking a bite of a cold crisp apple than anything else. I love the first snowfall, and I love a blizzard on a weekend, when I can be snug in my little home, while the storm rages sideways outside my windows.

I guess it's that love of place that makes this home, the sense that who I am is in tune with what this place is.

[robertainnc]

What a wonderful post! I think about home quiet often myself--I grew up in the green woods of North Carolina, and left at 22 for the dramatic beauty of the Arizona desert--but found myself always longing for home. I came from a large family of 7 children, and almost all have settled in the state where I was born. So at 28 I returned to NC, began dating and eventually married my husband, and had two kids, all near my parents and brothers and sisters! For me, home is where my family is.

I love romance novels that feature large loving families (like Mary Balogh's Bedwyn family), I think because of my own life--and I especially love when they have a home where they can all return and share their memories of childhood.

My own parents still live in the same house where I grew up, and we all return regularly (although I'm sure sometimes they wish we'd return a little less regularly!). In fact we'll all be there this weekend for Sunday dinner!

Happy Easter!

[Kalen Hughes]

***home is about the people***

This sums it up for me. If all my "people" suddenly up and decided to relocate en mass, I'd go along. Real-estate being what it is in the Bay Area, we’ve all actively debated just where this new *home* might be, but I doubt we’ll ever pick up and actually leave . . . cause the only places that fell like *home* to most of us are just as expensive. LOL!

For me, London, and oddly, Istanbul both felt like home. I could happily live in either place (but only with my people).

[maryjoputney]

From MJP:

Lovely quotes abouto Mole, Talpianna! As you say, the songs of exile have great poignancy. The one that comes to me first is Psalm 137, sung by the Israelites in exile in Babylon. A shortened quote:

"By the riviers of Babylon, there wer sat down, yeat we wept, when we remembered Zion.
...................How can we sing the Lord's song in a strange land?"

Haunting.

Maggie, I'm not that Maine girl, but I wrote it with someone in particular in mind. Maine had beautiful, clear energy, but those winters are fierce. Key West for the winter sounds lovely. :)

Kate, I agree completely about how awesome it is to imagine the daring and endurance of pioneers heading so far away from home, through dangerous places, with no likelihood of ever returning. They were strong people. Me, I'd've stayed where I was.

Gretchen, you're right, one can several homes. They'd be of different types, but all compelling.

Janga, thanks so much for quoting the wife's definition of home! I've never fully connected with the idea of the place where they to let you in. As you say, that's duty. ERs have to let you in, too. Much better grace and warmth.

Theo, I understand why you weren't fully happy with the story where the couple hit the road at the end. If he'd been a prisoner for centuries (centuries???), it makes perfect sense for the character to want the freedom to roam. But I like the stories where there is a fierce connection to home.

Katy, as you say, sometimes it's the place that draws us. The friends and family come later. I grew up a couple of hundred miles due west of you, and I know exactly what you mean about the ever changing seasons. (But you say it so beautifully!)

Robertaiinc, LOL about coming home perhaps TOO often for your parents! But I'll bet they were really, really glad when you forsook the Arizona desert for North Carolina again.

Kalen, San Francisco is one of the easiest places in the world to fall in love with! I lived in the Bay Area for a couple of years, and it will always have a piece of my heart.

Haven't been to Istanbul, but one of these years....

Mary Jo

[RevMelinda]

Hi Mary Jo,

What a wonderful, thought-provoking post!

As some of you know I work in the field of hospice care. Many of our patients, at the end of life, begin to speak of "home"--as in "Take me home," or "I want to go home." This often mystifies their families, who take these words literally ("mom grew up in Pittsburgh--does she want to go back there?")--when in reality it is a deep metaphor for their journey "home" beyond this life.

Sometimes, too, they talk about "going on a trip" or "catching a plane" or "finding the tickets". . .

One of our hospice volunteers visited her patient a few weeks ago. The patient, very close to death and seemingly disoriented, had packed her shoes up in a paper bag. She told her family that she was packing in preparation for "moving."

The family was very confused, but the volunteer knew what her patient was talking about.

The patient told the volunteer, "I'm going to move to a new home where everybody can come to visit me whenever they want to." The volunteer asked gently, "Is this new home a house with a roof and walls?" "No," said the patient, "but I hope you'll come visit me there."

Blessings,
Melinda

[Susan/DC]

Many thanks to talpianna for reminding me of the wonderful "Wind in the Willows". IIRC, there is also a scene where Rat is almost overcome by the opposite feeling, one of wanderlust. It takes Mole's gentle friendship to remind Rat that everything he wants is, in fact, by the riverbank and that his wandering days are over.

I believe there are lovely people everywhere but that sometimes there are places that call to you just as Mole's home did. I grew up in the West (Arizona and Washington State), and while I love both places, I didn't truly feel I'd come home till I lived in Boston. We moved to Washington, DC (or as I think of it, the "other" Washington) many years ago, intending only to try out a new part of the country for a year or two. But then my husband got a great job, we had children, and we put down roots, so here we are. Since I agree with Kalen that home = people, I now don't see myself anywhere else, although a small part of me still misses New England.

As for non-geographic homes, one of my favorites is from Mary Balogh's "The Temporary Wife" and describes an early sexual encounter between a husband and wife who've entered into a marriage of convenience: "He let her relax beneath him. He savored the warmth and softness and silence of her. He waited for her breathing to become normal. Then he drove himself to the place where he longed to be, the place where he had always longed to be. Always. All his life. Though it was not a place exactly . . ."

[Susan/DC]

Many thanks to talpianna for reminding me of the wonderful "Wind in the Willows". IIRC, there is also a scene where Rat is almost overcome by the opposite feeling, one of wanderlust. It takes Mole's gentle friendship to remind Rat that everything he wants is, in fact, by the riverbank and that his wandering days are over.

I believe there are lovely people everywhere but that sometimes there are places that call to you just as Mole's home did. I grew up in the West (Arizona and Washington State), and while I love both places, I didn't truly feel I'd come home till I lived in Boston. We moved to Washington, DC (or as I think of it, the "other" Washington) many years ago, intending only to try out a new part of the country for a year or two. But then my husband got a great job, we had children, and we put down roots, so here we are. Since I agree with Kalen that home = people, I now don't see myself anywhere else, although a small part of me still misses New England.

As for non-geographic homes, one of my favorites is from Mary Balogh's "The Temporary Wife" and describes an early sexual encounter between a husband and wife who've entered into a marriage of convenience: "He let her relax beneath him. He savored the warmth and softness and silence of her. He waited for her breathing to become normal. Then he drove himself to the place where he longed to be, the place where he had always longed to be. Always. All his life. Though it was not a place exactly . . ."

[talpianna]

Susan, I think that there are three profound moments of discovery in THE WIND IN THE WILLOWS. One is of the meaning of "home" in "Dulce Domum." The second is the discovery of one's limits in "Wayfarers All," when the Rat's longing to travel is stirred by the swallows first, then the Sea Rat:

`Ah, yes, the call of the South, of the South!' twittered the other two dreamily. `Its songs its hues, its radiant air! O, do you remember----' and, forgetting the Rat, they slid into passionate reminiscence, while he listened fascinated, and his heart burned within him. In himself, too, he knew that it was vibrating at last, that chord hitherto dormant and unsuspected. The mere chatter of these southern-bound birds, their pale and second-hand reports, had yet power to awaken this wild new sensation and thrill him through and through with it; what would one moment of the real thing work in him--one passionate touch of the real southern sun, one waft of the authentic odor? With closed eyes he dared to dream a moment in full abandonment, and when he looked again the river seemed steely and chill, the green fields grey and lightless. Then his loyal heart seemed to cry out on his weaker self for its treachery.

`Why do you ever come back, then, at all?' he demanded of the swallows jealously. `What do you find to attract you in this poor drab little country?'

`And do you think,' said the first swallow, `that the other call is not for us too, in its due season? The call of lush meadow- grass, wet orchards, warm, insect-haunted ponds, of browsing cattle, of haymaking, and all the farm-buildings clustering round the House of the Perfect Eaves?'

`Do you suppose,' asked the second one, that you are the only living thing that craves with a hungry longing to hear the cuckoo's note again?'

`In due time,' said the third, `we shall be home-sick once more for quiet water-lilies swaying on the surface of an English stream. But to-day all that seems pale and thin and very far away. Just now our blood dances to other music.'

And how wise of the Mole to cure him by suggesting that he WRITE about it!

The third, the most profound, and the one most often omitted, is "The Piper at the Gates of Dawn," with its depiction of an encounter with the numinous:

`Rat!' he found breath to whisper, shaking. `Are you afraid?'

`Afraid?' murmured the Rat, his eyes shining with unutterable love. `Afraid! Of HIM? O, never, never! And yet--and yet-- O, Mole, I am afraid!'

Then the two animals, crouching to the earth, bowed their heads and did worship.

Incidentally, does anyone besides me know why there is no actual mention of wind in willows in THE WIND IN THE WILLOWS?

[Susan Wilbanks]

I was one of those who was born and raised in the wrong place. I grew up in the country but love city life, and I grew up in the Deep South but hate hot summers. I've lived in rural Alabama, Philadelphia, briefly in rural Vermont, England (Bristol), and Seattle, and I get a little homesick for all of my former homes sometimes. I'm just never homesick for Alabama in the summer, and have been known to gloat at my relatives in July and August when it's 75 here and 95 or even 105 there!

What I don't think COULD be home to me is a desert or a very flat place. I like a lot of good natural green in my surroundings, and hills and mountains just seem to embrace me. Philly was almost too flat, but at least it was within driving distance of some wonderful hills. And the one thing keeping Seattle from being an ideal home for me is that it's such a young city that a 100-year-old building passes for old. I miss the tangible sense of the past I had in Philly and in England. But I couldn't ask for a more glorious setting for a city--all the mountains and water and the perfect summers with the long, dry, cool days.

I think because I've chosen to make a home far from my birthplace, I'm drawn to stories where characters have to make or find a new home for themselves, whether in the literal sense of moving far away or more figuratively in having to carve out their own social space after family rejection or if their interests, ambitions, or personality make them a misfit in their community. Those aren't the only stories I'll read, of course, but they're what I most easily relate to, and they're what I find myself writing.

[Minna]

For a change, I'd love to see romances that end with the couple taking off to the wild blue yonder for new adventures. Haven't seen any of those lately for some reason.

[Edith]

Love this topic, Mary Jo!

"Home" is such a comforting word. When ET used it I shamelessly sniveled and I didn't even know what his home was.
And Melinda, what a nice reminder of that long home that awaits us.
As for me? I love New York from beaches to forests, and excepting philandering governors, New York is the place for me to be.

But there have been those odd times, strange times... like when I stood in a garden in Bath the night before we were to return home to the US. It was twilight and I suddenly got such a pang of homsickness! But I didn't know if it was for New York or for England.
There are places that resonate with me just as the word does.
(cue the eerie music.)

[Susan/DC]

Apologies for the double post. And no, talpianna, I don't know why there is no mention of the wind in the willows in the book but would love to be enlightened. So many of the images from the book remain, even though it's been a very long time since I've read it. My view of Pan was definitely colored by "Piper at the Gates of Dawn", no matter how he's portrayed in other books I've read. I also liked Graham's "The Golden Age". What is it about England that these men can work for banks and insurance companies or the post office yet still write such lovely romantic books.

[talpianna]

Susan, our own American poet Wallace Stevens spent his career working for insurance companies and wound up as vice president of The Hartford. This seems so wrong. Possibly symbolic of this sort of thing, a bust of his wife was later used on the sculptor's 1916-1945 Mercury dime design and possibly for the head of the Walking Liberty Half Dollar.

Grahame's book was originally called THE WIND IN THE REEDS (from the bit in "Piper" where the reeds whisper the song about the Friend and Helper to Rat); but the title was deemed too close to W.B. Yeat's recently published collection of poems THE WIND AMONG THE REEDS and so was changed to THE WIND IN THE WILLOWS.

[maryjoputney]

From MJP:

RevMelinda, I've heard of people near the end talking about going home, and it's a lovely thought. I didn't know you did hospice work, but bless you for it.

Susan W., it's lovely that you found your true home. And it's interesting that you're drawn to stories of people creating new homes. I love books where people start with unpromising material and build a wonderful new home. (Jennifer Crusie's THE CINDERELLA DEAL leaps immediately to mind.)

Minna, I think it's clear from the responses that most of us readers prefer the 'coming home' stories to the 'wild blue yonder' stories! But some stories really have to end with heading out. Anything else would be wrong in the terms of that story.

Deja vu, Edith! It makes perfect sense to me. Some places do speak to us even if we've never been there.

--What is it about England that these men can work for banks and insurance companies or the post office yet still write such lovely romantic books.--

I think it means that those jobs were so dull that one needed an outside outlet! And/or that those days, writers were less likely to find teaching posts to support their writing, so a good steady job was the way to go. Not so different from now...

Mary Jo

[talpianna]

I forgot to mention to lovers of THE WIND IN THE WILLOWS that there is a series of sequels--good ones if not quite up to the best parts of the original--by William Horwood, author of the DUNCTON WOOD series of mole fantasies (which, along with Moley himself, inspired my fascination with moles).

[Marissa]

+JMJ+

My favourite writer G.K. Chesterton often referred to his wife as "a wandering home." Wherever she was, there was his home. <3

[Hvitveis]

Oooh. This blog had me thinking. I am home on easter vaccation in norway, and will go home to zaragoza (spain) where I study and live with my boyfriend.

Drøbak is where my father is from, where I spent most of my childhood, where my parents live, but I would never move here for reasons that I cannot put my finger on just now. Nor would I like to live nearby.

Zaragoza is where my boyfriend is from, where he has his friends, his family, his job, and he is sort of rooted there. But zaragoza does not have the sea, not even that tepid big lake that is the mediterranian. (seriously, it does not smell like the atlantic. but anything is better than nothing.)I do not like the idea of spending the rest of my life there. It is a bit claustrophobic.

So I guess I have not found my Home yet.

[maryjoputney]

From MJP:

Marissa, what a lovely quote from Chesterton. Who knew he was such a romantic?

Hvitveis, I laughed at your description of the Mediterranean as "that tepid big lake." Spoken like a true daughter of the Norsemen! It sounds as if you need to be near the sea. Relationships can break down over geographical incompatibility, since "home" is often more than a person. Good luck at finding yours.

Mary Jo

[Virginia]

If you like "exile" songs, take a listen to "Un canadien errant" (banni de ses foyers), written after the 1837 revolt, which was a distinct contributory factor to the arrival of my husband's paternal-line ancestors in Vermont.

For years, I said that had found my home here, within an easy commuting distance of the National Archives and Library of Congress. However, the internet is making that less of a consideration than it was thirty years ago.

Unlike many people, though, I really like the Washington, DC, region. I'll never go back to Missouri permanently because of the chiggers, I think.

[talpianna]

If I hadn't already named my house "Mole End," I think I'd call it (not too truthfully) "The House of the Perfect Eaves."