Aut cum scuto aut in scuto
Nothing warms you to the bones, like a wood stove on a bitter cold morning. Some of my fondest memories are sitting around one of those after the farm chores were done. drinking coffee, waiting for breakfast.
These visions of heaven are killing me as I sit in my cubical in the suburbs. I need a simpler life.
'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free 'Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be, And when we find ourselves in the place just right, 'Twill be in the valley of love and delight.