tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post7192899952173274739..comments2023-05-10T05:34:45.732-05:00Comments on angelaparsonmyers: Now That I'm Not Trying to Write About Homeangelaparsonmyershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00444590717139156975noreply@blogger.comBlogger8125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post-13898937702809422482012-04-18T22:50:41.692-05:002012-04-18T22:50:41.692-05:00When we first started going there, these cabins di...When we first started going there, these cabins didn't have bathrooms, either, just outhouses, each shared by two cabins. Glad I was able to bring a happy memory to you. We really need to cling to those happy ones.angelaparsonmyershttps://www.blogger.com/profile/00444590717139156975noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post-5732117573190861172012-04-18T22:45:36.750-05:002012-04-18T22:45:36.750-05:00True.True.angelaparsonmyershttps://www.blogger.com/profile/00444590717139156975noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post-26091871622832171512012-04-18T14:24:23.180-05:002012-04-18T14:24:23.180-05:00My thoughts are that the places where we felt, or ...My thoughts are that the places where we felt, or feel most alive, and engaged with our worlds are the ones that have that magick you speak of. There are many for me, but one that I remember (as a result of your post) is the cabin in Montana where we spent just a few summer nights in. There was a tire swing, a campfire, and great family memories of stories around it. There was no bathroom inside the cabin, it was half way up a hill, and a porcupine that lived under the floorboards (or several over the years) that would peek it's little nose up on occasion while we were inside. It's a place that I later went to write when I was by myself for a moment or three, and the energy of my innocence remained. To me that was magickal, because there weren't many places that I did play.k~https://www.blogger.com/profile/17308736457276683273noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post-5823803267913084142012-04-18T08:49:06.541-05:002012-04-18T08:49:06.541-05:00We've moved a few times and at each new start,...We've moved a few times and at each new start, I felt like a visitor in a foreign place. Every time we moved though, I shed tears as I closed the door for what I knew would be the last time. We'll be moving again at least one more time and though I'm excited about the idea, I know that as I lock the door and walk away, I'll mourn a little for the place that holds a handful our chapters. <br /><br />Home is wherever you are, wherever love lives. And though a box or two always seems to get lost with every move, the really important stuff goes with us.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post-35293799906376084402012-04-16T21:56:12.511-05:002012-04-16T21:56:12.511-05:00Didn't think of it that way at all. But that c...Didn't think of it that way at all. But that certainly is true. I've also discovered that I'm much more dependent on artwork and furnishings to create "home" than on any particular location. Not sure where that came from, except that my mother had a few belongings, a set of bookends and a little side table, that she carried with her from the early days of her marriage. I still have the bookends; my sister still has the table.angelaparsonmyershttps://www.blogger.com/profile/00444590717139156975noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post-10021691488073679872012-04-15T23:28:31.255-05:002012-04-15T23:28:31.255-05:00Did you realize your story starts off as a poem in...Did you realize your story starts off as a poem in the first paragraph! Home is where the heart is...We've moved quite a bit in our married life. As long as there is love, it is home.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post-30933746929154386592012-04-15T23:14:40.052-05:002012-04-15T23:14:40.052-05:00A few years ago, we did go, and as we went over th...A few years ago, we did go, and as we went over the bridge across the Gasconade River and turned the corner onto the dirt road, it was like going through a veil into another dimension. That place is absolutely magical--but only to me. He didn't feel it. Still, if I ever win the lottery, I'll see if I can't buy at least a big chunk of it, and maybe a nice little farm in Southern Illinois for my husband.angelaparsonmyershttps://www.blogger.com/profile/00444590717139156975noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2446615573502159740.post-77972029315410257692012-04-15T22:19:20.274-05:002012-04-15T22:19:20.274-05:00What an honest and straight story from your heart....What an honest and straight story from your heart. Home isn't where you are. I wish you and your husband could just go to your Ozark place fro a while, see if it still feels like home.<br />♥Johttps://www.blogger.com/profile/18285427147723972295noreply@blogger.com