Summer Moon of First Harvests
The Woollies came. Stefan, Tom, Scott, Bill, Charlie H., Warren, Frank, Mark and me. We sat around the fire pit, ate Kate’s tasty and thoughtfully prepared food, told stories of our lives as we almost always do. Relationship trouble. A son’s successful, so far, focus on alcohol. A journey to see children and grandchildren. A good experience in home repair. Painting, the fine art kind. Plein air even. A cousin who drunk himself to death. A trip to the polar regions with walrus and polar bears and knowledge. A sister-in-law with Alzheimer’s, early. Consulting with a group, helping them become creative.
The woods were there as witness. The sun set and the moon rose. We talked about home, my question, wondering why we want to stay home rather than go to a nursing home, why we want to die at home. What is this home idea that is so powerful that it can penetrate even the fog of Alzheimer’s? How do we know home? How do we make a home? When does a house become a home? We only got started, stories and poems and few notions, but there is so much more here. And it will only become more and more important as we live further into the third phase.
A conversation not yet finished.
