It Said . . . It takes a heap o' livin'

We butchered the hogs and picked a wheelbarrow full of apples and made them into applesauce on Saturday.

Cali

Ray

Yessiree, that's me up in that tree giving Levin the apples.

Abe and Levin wheeling them to the pot.

Grace

Atlas

Abe and Henry

The apples made about 8 gallons of apple juice as well.

The meat shoppe.  Abe, Ray, Grace, Calvin

Levin and Cali harvesting the pumpkins.

In preparation for the day . . .

 I made apple bread, cookies, and bread a couple of weeks ago and put them in the freezer in anticipation of the day.

a pot of chili cooking on Friday

you'd be correct if you think that far left pan of cinnamon rolls looks too well-done

And by the end of the day, the house looked like this . . .

the trail

That dark trail in the carpet is a real eyesore and if I'm not careful, I focus on it more than what created it.  That brings me to the words that I often remember when I begin to wish that spot away . . .

It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home . . . 

The poem continues of things that make a house a home -- little shoes, thumbprints, cryin', dancin', laughin', death, singin'.  When I remember all the feet and living that has made that trail into the kitchen, it doesn't bug me quite so badly. Here is some of that living from the last little while . . . 

Calvin cutting up green chilis from the garden to put into the freezer.

It ain’t home t’ ye, though it be the palace of a king, 

Until somehow yer soul is sort o’ wrapped round everything.

Family Home Evening with the Elders and the Sochirca family.
Here we are kneeling on that trail as we play a game of Cat & Rat

Ye’ve got t’ sing an’ dance fer years, ye’ve got t’ romp an’ play,

Here Calvin sits and listens to ASU football each week and walks back and forth to
the kitchen to get chips and salsa

An’ learn t’ love the things ye have by usin’ ’em each day;

Supper with the missionaries. 

Within the walls there’s got t’ be some babies born, and then . . .

Calvin and Henry Calvin

Right there ye’ve got t’ bring ‘em up t’ women good, an’ men . . . 

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;

(This post is part of a 31 Day Writing Challenge hosted by Myquillyn Smith  To see other posts in the series, click here)