Saturday, December 6, 2008
"Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration."
Traditionally, when Mater informs me that she is whitewashing the hob, I gather that somebody of note is about to pay a visit, justifying her furious clean sweep of the house.
Although she happily whitewashed the hob for a guest just recently, she is at it again this weekend for my imminent arrival.
What Mater fails to see, though, is that I will be so preoccupied tucking into homemade sausage, Irish tea and soft, fresh bread, and greeting the familiar feathered chap who will sing out a warm welcome from his cage that I will not even cast a glance at the hob, the floor or indeed any corner, gleaming or otherwise.
Such is the nature of a homecoming: one has seen the proverbial hob at its best and at its worst and one finds that its condition is incidental.
Posted by Phyllis Hunt McGowan at 7:36 AM