Under stars chilled by the winter
Under an August moon burning above
You'd be so nice
You'd be paradise, to come home to and love*

She had warm dark eyes and hair the color of bitter chocolate, and when she spoke it was like silk wrapped itself around his body.

Her hands were small, the nails tapering into perfect ovals, and she wore no polish, but they glowed from being buffed, he noticed. Sitting in the cafe, across the table from her, all he could think was that he wanted those hands to hold him, to stroke him, to tease and coax and work whatever magic their delicate dextrosity could conjure.

Magic. She was magic.
When she gave him that come-hither glance, he had no choice but to follow her lead, follow her car, follow her into the house with the blue door.

His last thought, before pleasure pushed him beyond consciousness, was that he thought blue doors were meant to keep the witches out.

*”You'd Be So Nice to Come Home To,” Cole Porter

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My mother was a tailor
She sewed my new bluejeans
My father was a gamblin' man
Down in New Orleans

It wasn't in New Orleans, but on a cliff in New Jersey, that overlooked the back side of New York Harbor, and there was no gambling and I'm not a boy…but it did face east, and my mother did sew all my clothes, then.

We called it the Eagle's Nest. I remember it as huge, but I was only four when we left it, and small for my age, and everything was huge. I remember it as being somewhere between cadet blue and driftwood grey. I remember the call of seagulls, the keening of foghorns, the roar of the surf far below.

I remember sand and tar, a gravel parking lot, and a bathroom with black-eyed susan's on the window sill. I used to confuse the flower and my mother. Maybe I still do.

I remember the pewter quail, which are mine now, and the red button box, which I don't think is mine, even though it's in my house. Maybe the quail aren't, either, really.

I remember parson's tables and playfulness, sunshine and sand candles. (Yes, candles, not castles.)

Mostly, I remember that when she wasn't at work, I had my mother's undivided attention.

What bliss that was!

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My mother was a tailor
She sewed my new bluejeans
My father was a gamblin' man
Down in New Orleans

It wasn't in New Orleans, but New Jersey, but it faced east, and it's midnight, and I've just had to reset my blog to the default template so please just…cut me some slack. :)

This is a placeholder. More in a minute.

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I've been told that something is wrong with my blog, and the front page (and apparently ONLY the front page) is NOT working in Internet Explorer.

I'm not certain as to WHY.

Anyone who uses wordpress who might be able to shed some light on this is invited to please contact me.

SUKI – I don't want to get kicked out of the thon for an IE error, please?

I AM posting.

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I've been either in or around the mortgage industry for more than half my life, and the thing that I hate most is when a young couple really wants a house and there's just no way they can afford it. You'd think that with all the programs that exist – zero-down-payment, no-doc, even no-credit-score – that this wouldn't happen, but it does, and while it's not usually my job to tell the borrower, it's often my job to tell the loan officer, who will have to tell the borrower. Sometimes, this industry is brutal that way.

But then there are the amazing stories, where that young couple trying to buy their first home cashes in the coke cans and the ragu bottles, and sells back their vacation time, and is so close, that one of us gets on the phone and asks their parents to just increase the gift for closing costs, a little bit, and they do.

That rush, that sense of selling some a lifestyle, a HOME, not just a house – that is why we continue to do our jobs.

Just sayin'.

Small two bedroom starter
Needs a little fixing
A great big yard for kids and pets to play
This one won't last too long
It's close to schools and churches
Owner leaving town
You better hurry down today*

“Small Two Bedroom Starter,” Reba McEntire

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A home
Four walls, a roof, and some windows
Just a place to run when my working day is through
They say home is where the heart is
If the exception proves the rule I guess that's true
Not a night goes by I don't dream of wandering
Through the home that might have been
And I listened to my pride
When my heart cried out for you
Now everyday I wake again in a house that might have been
A home
A home *

It was the flower carvings on the door that drew her to the place, even though she knew it was beyond their means. Still they bought it, and for a while they were happy, and then the strain of keeping up with the bills took it's toll. He was working two jobs, never home, and she was still in school, studying, working or sleeping, usually on a schedule opposite from his.

She noticed when he began to drift, felt it when he became detached, but she loved him, so she gave up a chance to study abroad doing an international affairs internship, and stayed home, working her nothing job so she could finish the year, and meet her half of the mortgage.

It was the flower carvings on the door that had drawn her to the place, but by the end, she saw withered weeds when she came home, and an empty house that was bleak and lonely, instead of filled with love.

*”Home,” Dixie Chicks

This bit of flash fiction was inspired by a song suggested by E.

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Our house, is a very, very, very fine house.
With two cats in the yard,
Life used to be so hard,
Now everything is easy 'cause of you.*

Once upon a time, Fuzzy and I lived in a funky apartment that had been carved out of a rambling old house. It had hardwood floors, and a built in hutch, but no dishwasher, and while it did have two showers, there was no bathtub.

We did, however, have cats, for a while. This was before I knew that, like my mother, I am highly allergic to cats. I can visit with them, but I can't live with them, which is too bad, because I like them, really.

(Cleo is glaring at me, so I have to state that I like dogs better than cats, which is true, actually.)

To me, a home isn't really a home unless there are pets. Cuddly pets. Pets with personalities and quirks, and waggly tails. There's something magical about having a furry four-foot meet you at the door, something soothing about having them come offer cuddles or puppy-kisses when you're in a foul mood.

I knew where this entry was going, really, when I began it.
No, really.

Le sigh.

*”Our House,” Crosby, Stills & Nash

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It's a bit after 9:30 and I'm drinking my evening mocha, fetched by Fuzzy, to help caffeinate me. Still more than 10 hours to go, and I'm fading, and not, all at once.

A picture of Starbucks might seem incongruous with the theme of home, but, this is the store in my neighborhood, where they compliment me on my clothes when I wear certain colors, and know if I've changed my hair, and what my drink is.

It's the place where I people-watch, a lot: teenagers, men in golf shirts reading the paper, women with laptops doing business over what passes for their lunch, soccer moms and church goers, all in pastels. It's a microcosm of our neighborhood, as any good cafe should be.

And hey, they serve COFFEE, too.

I'm feelin' mighty lonesome, haven't slept a wink;
I walk the floor from nine to four, in between I drink
Black coffee – love's a hand-me-down brew.
I'll never know a Sunday in this weekday room.*

*”Black Coffee,” Sarah Vaughan

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When shadows fall
And trees whisper, “Day is ending,”
My thoughts are ever wending home.

When crickets call
My heart is forever yearning
Once more to be returning home.*

As I've been listening to the song I've just quoted (and, I admit, gobbling the food I left in a rush to make a post on time, earlier), night has descended outside my window. I was caught for several moments looking at the twilight sky through my office window – the ebbing light making strange shadows of the trees in the yard, the pool of light from the neighbors' back yard pool, the birds alighting on the branches, for their nightly roost.

Twilight is one of my favorite times of day, even with the increased mosquito activity that inevitably goes with it. Somehow, it's hopeful, restful, romantic, and peaceful, all at once, and I generally prefer to experience it at home, with warm lamplight giving color to my immediate surroundings.

This is especially important to me on Sunday evenings, not because I have a burning need for a day-long sabbath, but because I think it's important to have some quiet time before a new, and busy, week begins.

*”Home,” Nat King Cole

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Feeling punchy a bit ago, and with my wrists really bothering me, I asked my friend Rebelbelle from Open Diary to consider doing a guest entry (I'd already used a picture of her front door).

She responded by emailing this, and even included a song suggestion.

*”Pocketful of Rainbows,” Elvis Presley

She wasn't certain whether or not it fit the parameters, but it does, in the loosest sense, and it made me smile, both because the moment between herself and her nephew was so tender, and because I, too, am an aunt, and know the joys of being able to borrow a child for a finite length of time.

Like grandparents, we are allowed to bend the rules, which behavior parents generally refer to as “spoiling” their children.

Me? I prefer to think of it as “sweetening” them.

Thanks to Rebelbelle for the contribution.

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