In the beginning...
When I was ten years old -- many, many, many years ago -- I spent the summer with my Great Grandmother and Great Uncle on the farm. I loved the farm. I helped with chores, I learned to milk cows, and I rode my bike for miles without worrying about traffic -- or pavement for that matter. I used to ride past this old empty house and one day, I wrote a poem about it. Today, while cleaning my office, I found that poem.
The Lonesome House
There's a house that I know of
Along a dirt road
It has nobody in it
Or so I've been told.
Its windows are broken
Its lawn is unmowed,
Its only got memories
Of times now grown old.
My heart fills with pity
As I pass it by
Because a house without people
Is like clouds without sky.
My great uncle was so thrilled with this bit of artistic expression, he sent it into the local paper. And they printed it. More importantly, they paid me five dollars.
And I thought, "Wait a minute, people will pay me for this?"
And that's how I got started.
The Lonesome House
There's a house that I know of
Along a dirt road
It has nobody in it
Or so I've been told.
Its windows are broken
Its lawn is unmowed,
Its only got memories
Of times now grown old.
My heart fills with pity
As I pass it by
Because a house without people
Is like clouds without sky.
My great uncle was so thrilled with this bit of artistic expression, he sent it into the local paper. And they printed it. More importantly, they paid me five dollars.
And I thought, "Wait a minute, people will pay me for this?"
And that's how I got started.