Thus spake - no, not Zarathustra - a couple standing by the gate who were admiring "Riverbend" from a distance. Whether or not I agree with them depends entirely on the time of day.
For instance, this morning when the temperature was still hovering in the single-digits, I might've hit them across their frostbitten faces with my begloved hands but now that both the sun and the temperature have climbed markedly higher, I'm more than ready to agree with them.
I mean, where else can I relieve myself against the nearest tree with-out looking over my shoulder, play "Die Fahne hoch" on my old button accordion without invading the nervous systems of any neighbours, and not shave my face or change my underwear for a whole week?
And so, as I slowly walk back into the house, I feel every bit like the Mole in "The Wind in the Willows" who let "his eyes ... wander round his old room, mellow in the glow of the firelight that played or rested on familiar and friendly things which had long been unconsciously a part of him, and now smilingly received him back, without rancour ... He saw clearly how plain and simple — how narrow, even — it all was; but clearly, too, how much it all meant to him, and the special value of some such anchorage in one's existence" ... [and] ... "it was good to think he had this to come back to, this place which was all his own, these things which were so glad to see him again and could always be counted upon for the same simple welcome."
'Dulce Domum' indeed!
