Home is the nicest word there is.
― Laura Ingalls Wilder
Yes, it’s where the heart is.
So, it should come as no surprise that thoughts of the old homeplace can make even a Commander-in-Chief wax poetic…
My Childhood Home I See Again
by Abraham Lincoln
My childhood home I see again,
And sadden with the view;
And still, as memory crowds my brain,
There's pleasure in it too.
O Memory! Thou midway world
'Twixt earth and paradise,
Where things decayed and loved ones lost
In dreamy shadows rise,
And, freed from all that's earthly vile,
Seem hallowed, pure, and bright,
Like scenes in some enchanted isle
All bathed in liquid light.
As dusky mountains please the eye
When twilight chases day;
As bugle-notes that, passing by,
In distance die away;
As leaving some grand waterfall,
We, lingering, list its roar--
So memory will hallow all
We've known, but know no more.
Near twenty years have passed away
Since here I bid farewell
To woods and fields, and scenes of play,
And playmates loved so well.
Where many were, but few remain
Of old familiar things;
But seeing them, to mind again
The lost and absent brings.
The friends I left that parting day,
How changed, as time has sped!
Young childhood grown, strong manhood gray,
And half of all are dead.
I hear the loved survivors tell
How nought from death could save,
Till every sound appears a knell,
And every spot a grave.
I range the fields with pensive tread,
And pace the hollow rooms,
And feel (companion of the dead)
I'm living in the tombs.
Well, on that cheery note…
Here’s another take on the subject —
Give a listen to "The House That Built Me" written by Tom Douglas and Allen Shamblin, and recorded by Miranda Lambert.
Dang, that’s a weeper, too.
It’s the “live oak” line that gets me every time.
I've got one of those. Do you?