It Takes Heap O' Livin' To Make a House a Home

When I think of my favorite homemakers, I think of women from my church who I knew when I was growing up in the 1970s.  Granted during the 70s, homemaking was championed as one of the greatest professions a woman could do, and perfection in homemaking was often sought.  But, the women I looked up to were not perfectionists, they were good humored, able to laugh at themselves, and they were kind.

On of my favorites was Flora Amussen Benson, wife of the President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Here's a picture of her with President Benson:

One day, I was at a conference where Flora Benson and her husband, Ezra were speaking.  I was in the choir and sat right behind her.  She was about 15 feet in front of me and she talked about the joys of raising a family.

Particularly, I was amused as she recited the poem by Edgar Guest, Home.  Some of you might know this poem with the unofficial title, "Heap O' Livin'".  Notice in the poem, there is very little said about how the home should look, and it's more about the activities that bring memories.

Here is goes:

Home

BY EDGAR ALBERT GUEST

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

A heap o’ sun an’ shadder, an’ ye sometimes have t’ roam 

Afore ye really ’preciate the things ye lef’ behind, 

An’ hunger fer ’em somehow, with ’em allus on yer mind. 

It don’t make any differunce how rich ye get t’ be, 

How much yer chairs an’ tables cost, how great yer luxury; 

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

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

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; 

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

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

And gradjerly, as time goes on, ye find ye wouldn’t part 

With anything they ever used—they’ve grown into yer heart: 

The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore 

Ye hoard; an’ if ye could ye’d keep the thumbmarks on the door. 

Ye’ve got t’ weep t’ make it home, ye’ve got t’ sit an’ sigh 

An’ watch beside a loved one’s bed, an’ know that Death is nigh; 

An’ in the stillness o’ the night t’ see Death’s angel come, 

An’ close the eyes o’ her that smiled, an’ leave her sweet voice dumb. 

Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an’ when yer tears are dried, 

Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an’ sanctified; 

An’ tuggin’ at ye always are the pleasant memories 

O’ her that was an’ is no more—ye can’t escape from these. 

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

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

Even the roses ’round the porch must blossom year by year 

Afore they ’come a part o’ ye, suggestin’ someone dear 

Who used t’ love ’em long ago, an’ trained ’em jes’ t’ run 

The way they do, so’s they would get the early mornin’ sun; 

Ye’ve got t’ love each brick an’ stone from cellar up t’ dome: 

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