There's No Place Like Home

I'm up with the chickens today. It's a beautiful day, like in a musical. The sets are all idealized like that. Looking out, the garage and tools and things setting around it look like the backdrop for the Opry, well swept. I might go out and yodel a few happy tunes and work with a lasso.

I'm puttering around. Thank God for the house patching industry. They were here and got the place fixed up. I'm shivering thinking about what it would've been like if the Grangers had taken the freezer right through the wall. It would've made a better story ... that's about it. As it is, I had them leave a few bullet holes, in case the place is ever made into a museum.

I've heard of that being done. We went to a museum. Some guys had robbed the bank, like 1890, then hid out in the museum. They shot holes in the wall, which are carefully preserved to this day. So, see, the town is saying, "Thank God for those robbers back then or we wouldn't have anything to be proud of today." It makes you think if you went there to rob the bank today, they'd give you a big bouquet and ask what took you so long!

But the life of crime is no life for me. Nor is the life of crime-solving. Nor is the life of running around the countryside investigating, trying to stamp out organizations who prey upon their fellow man. As for today, anyway, I'll leave that to those who know how. I was getting too personally involved anyway. I'd be almost willing to overlook their crimes for a chance with Lemaperu. And her mom wasn't half bad either. But it'll never be.

Which is OK. Because today I'm singing the old refrain, "Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home." How often did they tell me that over the years? Too many! It humbles my heart that so often I live like it isn't so. I look at these four walls -- thinking of this room in particular -- and think Wow, I'm cooped up. This isn't a life for a full grown man. If I'm willing to live here, why would I neglect the rest of the world? But as soon as you do, what happens? You get shot down. I about got shot down right here, when the world came calling.

No, here are my things. A stack of CDs. This computer. A glass of milk. A cup of tea. The tie I wear to funerals. An empty candy bag. My hot jazz hat. Other things. I need to appreciate what I have. And where I have it. This old house.

Someday, I suppose it's bound to happen ... Grandma will die. And some guys will carry her out on a stretcher. But until that day! ... Until that day we will live life to the fullest right here!

Then some years later, however many, who knows? I myself will pass on. I'll just be sitting here. Or maybe I'll be curled up in bed. Maybe I'll feel a hot rush flooding my heart or brain. Maybe I'll see the lights of glory. And raise my arms until they collapse in that final ecstasy. It's bound to happen, sad as it sounds. I'll probably lay there and rot before someone finds me. Then the same guys will bring in their stretcher. They'll have their faces bound up or under big gas masks. They might carry the whole bed out in the yard and pick me up with a machine to avoid infection. Then set the bed afire -- my estate be d---ed!

I don't mind talking about it. Then the museum people can come in and get things arranged for the tourists. Whose first question will be what happened to his bed. It'll be an interesting story. He died alone and no one noticed him, etc. And right there on the lawn is where it burnt.

Not exactly the Fantasy World of Harry Faversham, but it's something to think about on a beautiful day. I don't mind starting with a cold shiver. ... But this is my desk and these are my things. There's no place like home. None, nada. If there's anywhere else like it, I'd be interested in knowing where.