“It seems like a lot of fuss and trouble,
All those nails and shingles and boards and bricks
and mortar–
Just to build a house.
Don’t you sometimes wonder it it isn’t a little futile–
All that effort, all that labor?”
He looked at me quizzically, a little sadly,
“Buddy,” he said, “Somebody might appreciate it.”
And went back to work,
Short answer, but I read into it a whole lot more.
I believe he was building a home, not a house,
He was seeing Dad by the fireplace, with a magazine;
And Mom in the kitchen, humming over a new recipe;
And Junior’s trying to shave tor the first time;
And Daughter, about to be married….
He saw them love that house, all of them.
Only they never said “house”–
They said “Home,”
It was something substantial–
A bulwark against wind and cold and rain,
A sanctuary in time ot need.
I got his name and address.
When the time comes, I’d like him to drive some nails
And some of his spirit
ln my Home, too.
by Ray Romine Monday, September 8, 1947
