My Friend’s House

There have been a lot of home keeping and house work posts
lately in the blogs I frequent. Some people have made mention of what they find
in other people’s homes. “You would never write about my house would you?” says
my friend nervously. I smiled. She
thinks she has much to learn about housekeeping.

I think she has much to teach.

I have never been in her house that it is not filled with
light and warmth. In the winter it is firelight from the fireplace in the
living room and the wood stove in the kitchen. In the summer it is her curtains
thrown back and doors constantly open as children run in and out.

I have never been in her house that it did not smell
wonderful. There is always, and I mean always, something baking or bubbling
merrily on the stove. She is rightly famous for her breads and I would walk a
mile barefoot for her oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. Her young daughter’s Magic Cake has done more
damage to my waistline than I care to think about. The young ones are following
the family tradition of hospitality.

I have never been in her house when someone wasn’t laughing.
It’s one of those places where joy happens.

I have never been in the house more than five minutes that I
haven’t received a cup of tea, a cold drink or a glass of wine.

I have never been in that house and not heard music. Her
children playing, her husband playing, my children and husband playing… Friends
bring instruments every time they come.

I have never been in that house that I haven’t wanted to
stay.

Have I mentioned I’m there nearly every day?

Does she have dust bunnies under her bed? I have no idea,
could care less. She has love, laughter, joy and grace. She has hospitality
down pat. She has a great husband and great kids who follow her lead in making
everyone welcome. 

It’s where I want to be. No matter what is under the bed.