“How often have I lain beneath rain on a strange roof, thinking of home.”
― William C. Faulkner
I always had the mentality of an immigrant, so the subject of home was a mystery to me from when I was a youngster. Where was that warm place by an open fire, drinking hot mugs of tea and chatting about all the neighbors in the street. A familiar environment that expected that you only be yourself - but I have had little idea about my 'self' - and so a home escaped me for many years. I finally managed to forge a home in America, with the warmth of a family and friends, all the curious knick-knacks that have been collected through the years, annoying neighbors and several deceased pets. I was always right though - a home is difficult to describe because it is filled with many mundane as well as wonderful things. Everything always seems so transient - I ponder on where my final resting place will be!
Photo by Peter Loud, 1973:
https://www.peterloud.co.uk/photos/Newcastle/Wallsend/Tyne_Pride.html
Text: All Rights Reserved & Copyright David John Drew 2022
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