A Prairie Home Companion from American Public Media: First Person

Tiny House
by Mary Jane Leith
February 21, 2007

Bounding home
Workworn, starving

Passing the bent stop sign
That a tree limb dented
Two summers ago
During the storm
That brought fear
Of tornadoes and sirens

Ahead the houses are lit
With bright kitchen lights
And the blue glow of television
Mine is still dark

Juggling keys, gloves
Throwing open the front door
And taking in the warmth of home
And the subtle smell of steaks
We cooked two nights ago

Lights ablaze
Eight, nine lamps burning
Adding warmth
To this tiny house, our jewel box
The first thing we own
That neither of us
Could afford by ourselves

In the kitchen, a heavy pot will soon
Be boiling with a thick, meaty soup
To stave off the winter freeze
That weighs on the trees
And chaps our hands
And makes us never want to leave
The quiet protection
Of this jewel box house

About the author:
I'm a native of Michigan, married to an Iowan, and we have lived in Georgia for almost seven years. It must be true that the blood thins in the South, because even 32-degree days can seem bitterly cold. Fortunately, frequent trips to Iowa in the winter months to visit family harden our roots and refresh our spirits and remind us what the biting prairie wind feels like.

Nestling in for an evening at home is the constant highlight of my days. A hearty dinner and a warm blanket are all a person needs to make it through the frigid January days.