                                                           Home

                         It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make
                             it home,
                         A heap o’ sun an’ shadder, an’ ye sometimes
                             have t’ roam
                         Afore ye really ‘preciate the things ye lef’
                             behind,
                         An’ hunger fer’ em somehow, with ‘em allus
                             on yer mind.
                         It don’t make any difference how rich ye
                            get t’ be,
                         How much yer chairs an’ tables cost, how
                            great yer luxury;
                          It ain’t home t’ ye, though it be the palace
                            of a king,
                          Until somehow yer soul is sort o’ wrapped
                             round everything.

                          Home ain’t a place that gold can buy or get
                             up in a minute;
                           Afore it’s home there’s got t’ be a heap
                              o’ livin’ in it;
                           Within the walls there’s got to be some babies
                              born, and then
                            Right there ye’ve got t’ bring em’ up t’
                              women good, an’ men;
                            And gradjerly, as time goes on, ye find ye
                               wouldn’t part
                            With anything they ever used–they’ve
                                grown into yer heart:
                             The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the
                                little shoes they wore
                             Ye hoard; an’ if ye could ye’d keep the
                                thumb-marks on the door.

                             Ye’ve got t’ weep t’ make it home, ye’ve
                                got t’ sit an’ sigh
                             An’ watch beside a loved one’s bed, an’
                                know that Death is nigh;
                             An’ in the stillness o’ the night t’ see Death’s
                                angel come,
                             An’ close the eyes o’ her that smiled, an’
                                leave her sweet voice dumb.
                              For these are scenes that grip the heart,
                                an’ when yer tears are dried,
                              Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an’
                                sanctified;
                              An’ tuggin’ at ye always are the pleasant
                                 memories
                              O’ her that was an’ is no more–ye can’t
                                 escape from these.

                              Ye’ve got to sing an’ dance fer years, ye’ve
                                got t’ romp an’ play,
                              An’ learn t’ love the things ye have by usin’
                                 ’em each day;
                              Even the roses round the porch must blossom
                                 year by year
                              Afore they’ come a part o’ ye, suggestin’
                                 someone dear
                              Who used t’ love ’em long ago, and trained
                                 ’em just t’ run
                               The way they do, so’s they would get the
                                 early mornin’ sun;
                               Ye’ve got to love each brick an’ stone from
                                 cellar up t’ dome:
                               It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make
                                 a home.

                                                           -Edgar A Guest

Enter this door
As if the floor
Within were gold,
And every wall
Of jewels all
Of wealth untold;
As if a choir
In robes of fire
Were singing here.
Nor shout, nor rush,
But hush . . .
For God is here.

Family--Growth and Changes

There have been many changes over the years. Roberta and Jim have made their home a place of beauty and warmth. Roberta's mother, Hilma Bloomquist, made her home with them. She was widowed in 1932, when Roberta was two-years-old. Her gracious personality and talented home-making and culinary skills made many a visitor feel special soon after entering their doors. To friends and extended family, Aunt Hilma's presence was envied because of her many gifts and inner beauty. With the birth of Roberta and Jim's daughter, Roberta Ann, on January 9, 1960, Roberta and Jim experienced the joy and challenges coming with three generations sharing and loving under one roof. Hilma died September 4, 1986.

Music, education, church, gardening, and travel are but a few of their shared experiences. Watching Roberta Ann grow into a young woman, achieve a successful nursing career, marry a talented and fine young man, Scott Ross, then bring two beautiful children into the world, has brought them truly "golden years." With the birth of Jacqueline Joy (Jackie), June 3, 1989 and Adam July 3, 1995, they discovered the excitement and unequaled joy of grandparenting.They made babysitting an art and educational experience; yet always, they considered it a priviledge and blessing.

A warm welcome, a pot of coffee, or cup of tea comes with a plate of homemade cookies or other tasty treats.