Home, Sweet Home

“Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration.”
(Charles Dickens)

I enjoy traveling.  Seeing new places, new faces; getting away from the daily grind here and dipping my figurative toes into a new pond.  It’s energizing, and it’s fun. 

Really.

But I love the quote above; home is, indeed, where my heart is and it felt so good to get up this morning after a desperately-needed full-night’s sleep and be able to spend a few, freezing minutes out in the backyard.  Bob had spotted the Cooper’s hawk when it positioned itself in the big maple tree next door – prime photo op even in the snow-impending gloom, but by the time we hastily unpacked Matilda it had happily shaken its tail and flown off.

Much to my surprise and a little to my chagrin, when I walked outside to see if perhaps the Cooper’s had merely flown into one of the trees in a nearby yard I realized that I’d missed an even richer photo op.  Apparently one of the numerous pigeons had been the Cooper’s breakfast, but I hadn’t seen it when I’d looked outside earlier because the hawk had taken its unhappy meal just out of the line of sight from the back door.  If I’d had the sense to actually step outside when I’d made my backyard activity check, I’d have seen it; instead, all that remained were feathers, wings, and a few bones.

But the furballs were out in full force, stuffing themselves and starting to make faint chases that portend the upcoming winter mating rituals.  We had to bring all the big pumpkins up from the basement due to a couple of meltdowns, and the temperature drop has foraging for winter fattening and winter stores reaching its annual peak so I took full advantage of it: 

Just as I thought I was done and ready to head back inside, a rather small fox squirrel caught my attention.  She was hesitant yet shyly friendly; at first I thought perhaps it was one of Eleanor’s kids, but upon closer inspection I realized I’ve no idea just who she might be.  Strangest thing of all was the deja vu that came when I began processing the morning’s photographs – for there was the spitting image of my late love, Boyfriend:

I’ve a small photograph of Boyfriend in my den, one of many taken of him during the years he came ’round daily to visit; he is in the same pose and the photograph was taken about this same time of year.  Those short, round ears and that blunt profile were unique to his endearing old soul, marking his progeny for all time yet none to the extent I saw this morning.  It is as if a tiny piece of what I now fondly think of as the “old guard” came by to grace the yard once more, and brings back a thousand memories of hours spent sitting quietly outside handing out shelled nuts to that beloved cast of characters. 

Memories that bind my heart here.