Who is your new Poet Laura?
The first thing you might notice is my name isn’t Laura. Not that I haven’t wished it was. Luckily, the Poet Laura can be a Karen (but the lover-of-chickens type of Karen, not the bad-meme Karen). And wishing my name was Laura is one of the criteria for the job.
Karen Paul Holmes with poultry friend
The L-Shaped House, Packard Avenue, Flint, Michigan
I grew up on Do the Watusi on the jukebox at Angelo’s,
pink tutus,
and a bike looping along
sidewalk and driveway—I was Andretti
but obeyed stop signs my brother chalked
on the pavement.
My Barbie wore homemade dresses,
and boys picked me because I could bat.
There was the Easter hat, carnation corsage,
and communion
on an empty stomach, wine digging a hot path—
throat to belly, while we sang, Mnogaya Leta!
God grant us many years!
My breath is Klashoff and Papazoff with rags
for shoes in winters beneath Baba Mountain.
Bortkevitch and Ryan, Russian ships
and Newcastle’s bagpipes on Saturdays,
a tailor’s even stitches, a prudish mother’s fear
of disgrace (we necked with boys anyway),
the expectation of all-As at Bentley High
and anxiety. But still, the family cracked up
at Carol Burnett on Sunday nights.
Our house hid a half-acre backyard
with a rusty red swing set, woods running
way back to the train track.
We weren’t supposed to play there but waved
to cabooses and left
pennies for engines to flatten—never found them.
I am school portraits with cat-eye glasses
and VP headshots, from moments quivering
like fruit-dotted Jell-O topped with Cool Whip
to the blended flavors
of lamb munga cooked all day.
I sweat Baltic and Pacific salt,
the sweet grit of Great Lakes sand, and now,
in the last quarter of my life,
I’ve got feet held firm in red Georgia clay.
— Karen Paul Holmes (modified version of a poem that first appeared in the Dunes Review)
By way of explanation, my mother was born in Australia to a Russian father and an Irish mother. My father was a Macedonian who emigrated to the U.S. as a teen, eventually joined the Navy, and met my mother Down Under. She came to the U.S. on a converted war ship after WWII to marry him. They were together until death did them part, more than 50 years later. Neither one had a college education, but boy did I ever learn from them and from the melting pot of cultures in which I grew up.
The idea for my poem came from a rather famous Where I’m From prompt developed by former Kentucky Poet Laureate George Ella Lyon. Where are you from, metaphorically and geographically? You can write about it and even submit a poem to the I Am From Project, where you can also read George Ella’s poem.
Speaking of origins, Tweetspeak has been around since 2009! L.L. Barkat was the original Laura involved, and she has since carried it forward with passion. I’m thankful to the other Poet Lauras for coming before me with aplomb. I am gobsmacked to be a not-Laura who gets to be a Laura and spread the good news of poetry. Whether it’s with chicken poems, chocolate poems, tea poems, or any other poetry ponderings, I vow to put my heart and humor into this monthly post. My wish is that it does your poetry heart good.
Try It: “Where I’m From” Poetry Prompt
Where are you from, metaphorically and geographically? Write about it with colorful details and even dialog, then share with us in the comment box below. Want to go further? Consider submitting your poem to the I Am From Project. Email your entry to: iamfromproject@gmail.com
Photo by Nathalie, Creative Commons, via Flickr. Post by Karen Paul Holmes, 2022 Tweetspeak Poet Laura and author of No Such Thing as Distance. Poem and chicken photo used with permission.
Our “Where I’m From” Poetry Cloud
In her former life, Karen was VP-Communications at a global financial services corporation, and she now works as a freelance business writer and consultant. Her ghost-written articles have appeared in many industry publications under executive bylines.
- Poet Laura: Passing on the Laura-ship - October 6, 2022
- Poet Laura: Telling Your Story Through Another’s Eyes - September 8, 2022
- Poet Laura: Dark Humor & Smarts in the Same Poem - August 11, 2022
L.L. Barkat says
Karen, it’s truly a delight to welcome you to this role. And I see you already have your poultry connection! (Where was that photo taken, btw? Who is the lucky chicken?)
I love that you chose the “Where I’m From” prompt to begin; not only do we get to “meet” you, but it’s a wonderful invitation for community members to introduce themselves at this juncture, too. Maybe I will even try my hand at it. 🙂
Karen Paul Holmes says
Thank you, Laura! It’s a delight to be here. The chicken photo was taken an Crane Creek Vineyard in Young Harris, GA, in the Blue Ridge Mountains. It’s a lovely place.
I’d love to read your Where I’m From poem, so I hope you do try your hand at the prompt. It gets the creative juices flowing. 💃🏻
L.L. Barkat says
The dancer totally made me smile. 🙂
***
Where I’m From
1
Venison, shotguns
snow banks taller than a man
catfish-pond green with summer
(and the willow over it,
weeping)
a stand of birch
we peeled and peeled,
curling soft-silvered white
into bracelets and ribbons
(how is it they never stopped living?)
Dalmation, Shepherds, Labrador
all bark and bite
while the Irish setters lolled
and lazed unknowing
white pine, copper-bottomed creek
forget-me-nots wild
by the water’s edge
sister stories under makeshift tents,
in stick forts, under lilacs, and, always,
escape plans hatching
Needles bronzed, pine cones falling
and one day, me, leaving
Trading: soda for juice, margarine
for butter, canned for fresh
Swearing, promising—
I’d never go back to where I’m from.
2
Venus over the Hudson River,
the golden hour always dressing
the single pine out back
in grandeur
Cinnamon, cardamom,
curry powder (in the cabinet)
Basil at my bedroom window.
Parsley, sage, rosemary,
and thyme (no kidding) to the south side
of my tiny Tudor.
Piano, cherry wood. (I’m learning.)
Rilke’s hundred fragrances
hiding in my wild yard
(asters, honeysuckle, baby roses (white),
brown-eyed Susans, blueberries, wineberries,
sour cherries, blackberries, currants,
and kiwi that has yet to fruit)
Two daughters,
laughter-quibbles-laughter-more laughter
and nights they stay up too late
braiding stories, plotting time
(me, begging for sleep mercy
after 1 a.m.—”Go to bed, please!”)
The street lights shining
too bright at the edges
of my old windows
I miss my sister—
and the woods.
Karen Paul Holmes says
Oh wow, that is a very rich poem. I love how you made it 2 parts — gives me an idea to write a “where i went” poem. It’s so interesting how these poems always contain something from my childhood too. In your poem, there are many things I relate to, but especially peeling the white birch.
Sharmen Oswald says
I love all of the imagery! It truly is rich.
Bethany R. says
How lovely to see this closeness between sisters repeat in the next generation. And this stanza lit up for me:
“sister stories under makeshift tents,
in stick forts, under lilacs, and, always,
escape plans hatching”
I like how the poem ends with a wish to reunite instead of escape. Although, I suppose you could escape to a reunion.
Karen Paul Holmes says
Agree!
Kortney says
Yes, this stanza really sings!
Crystal Rowe says
My parents live in Blairsville, GA. I went to Young Harris college for classes during my senior year of high school back in 1999. What a small world!
Karen Paul Holmes says
Wow! I know some of the teachers at YHC.
Callie Feyen says
Hi, Karen!
I live in Ann Arbor, and Packard is just a few feet away from me.
I love “Where I’m From,” and have used it in my teaching every year. My first poem was written from George Ella Lyon’s poem.
Looking forward to getting to know you through your words.
Karen Paul Holmes says
HI Callie,
I love Ann Arbor — I went to U of Michigan, as did 2 of my sisters and brother. The Packard in my poem is in Flint, though. Thanks for reaching out.. I’m glad you use the prompt– it’s a good one!
Sandra Heska King says
Go Green! 😉
Sharmen Oswald says
Tapestry
I am from piano music floating carelessly through the air,
From singing hymns and tunes to the depths of our being.
I am from the Beatitudes inspiring an attitude of gratitude,
From “America the Beautiful” sung loudly and proudly
For father and husband,
From “Amazing Grace” sung humbly and reverently for
Preachers and teachers.
I am from drafty roll-out windows and checkerboard kitchen tile.
From starch water in a coke bottle with a sprinkler top
And starch-pressed white shirts for Daddy to wear to the bank.
I am from Mama rap, rap, rapping on the typewriter
Lessons for tomorrow’s English class –
Poetry constructed and destructed, short stories analyzed
And Shakespeare translated.
I am from first job as a soda jerk and “Yes sir” and “Yes ma’am”
And “Please deposit your film here.”
From milkshakes made from scratch,
From pouring small packages of lance peanuts into small coke bottles.
I am from pecan trees that reach their long arms into the sky to
Cradle the sun so that they can yield their bounty in the fall.
From McAlister and Price, Junkins and Garrison, Adams and Jones;
From Mama Mac, Grandmama, Granddaddy
And a grandfather I never met.
I am from Anderson, Greenville and Leesville, towns imprinted on my soul,
From summer trips to Murrells Inlet which supplied
Seashells, sharks’ teeth and sunburns.
From classrooms and libraries, stories and poetry;
From words that cut to the bone and
Words that apply healing salve to the wound.
I am from Civil Rights Marches that unsettled my young mind,
From President John F. Kennedy, Bobby Kennedy
And Dr. Martin Luther King assassinated, annailated
That left me wondering who is next.
I am from Grandmother’s Flower Garden quilts, soft covers for hard times;
From handmade dresses stitched with love and care.
I am from hand-me-downs and photo albums
Chronicling a childhood shared with three siblings.
I am from honesty, hard-work, Do-unto-others-as-you-would-have-done-to-you,
Love-your-neighbor-as-yourself,
Turn-the-other-cheek.
I am from scraps and threads passed down by generations
Through time and woven together
Into a tapestry called me.
Karen Paul Holmes says
Sharmen, thank you for sharing that delightful and informative poem! I almost feel like I know you. And I relate to so much of it. “From starch water in a coke bottle with a sprinkler top” — oh yes! Only my mother’s bottle was “Squirt,” a soda, which I think was only sold in Michigan or thereabouts.
Sharmen Oswald says
On a side note, I have a flock of 14 chickens. All of them have names, and I do read poetry to them on occasion.
Karen Paul Holmes says
❤️
Sharmen Oswald says
Congratulations to you Karen for being the next Laura Poet! Well deserved!!
Katie Brewster says
Karen,
You have already done my poetry heart good with your I Am From Poem and the rest of your introductory post here:)
I’m looking forward to more of your spunky spirit and encouragement to enjoy and share poetry.
Gratefully,
Katie
Here is my I Am From Poem:
I am from iced tea,
From Ajax and Lysol.
I am from the lot by the creek,
From the two-story brick house built by my dad,
Clean, tidy, smelling of Pine Sol,
I am from azaleas and dogwoods beautiful and handsome
I’m from pot luck dinners and camping trips
From Houston Lee and Annie Laura
I’m from obsessive compulsive disorder and perfectionism, “if you
can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.”
From don’t do a thing halfway.
I’m from the Southern Baptist Convention, the Wilmington
Association to be specific.
I’m from Waverly, OH and and the Spivey and Keith Clans.
Cherry Yum-Yum, Congo Squares
From the couple who eloped and stayed married 61 years.
The bricklayer and the seamstress
pictures and scrap books in drawers recording many a happy time.
(my I Am From poem was written using a template posted by Michelle DeRusha on her Everyday Faith. Faith Every Day blog)
Karen Paul Holmes says
Thanks for your sweet note, Katie, and for sharing your fun poem. “From the couple who eloped and stayed married 61 years.” — wow, what a wonderful story in this one line alone!
Katie Brewster says
Thank you, Karen.
My sibs and I were blessed to have them for parents.
They gave us roots and wings, as my older sister says often:)
Karen Paul Holmes says
❤️
Glenda Beall says
I relate to your poem and enjoyed reading it. I like the bricklayer and seamstress pictures and scrap books in drawers recording many a happy time.
Katie Brewster says
Thank you, Glenda.
They were a special couple.
Glad you enjoyed it:)
Bethany Rohde says
Karen, congratulations on your Lauraship! Thank you for sharing your poem here. So much flavor and texture in it. What a fun way to get to know you a little bit.
I also checked out your website and listened to Garrison Keillor read your poem, “Rental Cabin, Maine.” I absolutely love it. The reconstituted orange juice, the six sets of touching knees, and the ending image. Wow.
Thanks so much for sharing this post, I look forward to reading more of your words.
Karen Paul Holmes says
Bethany, that’s so nice of you to listen to Garrison K — it was a huge thrill for me to hear that famous voice read my poem. Thank you for being a reader, and I look forward to sharing more poetry talk with you!
Crystal Rowe says
Hi Karen! I love learning about people through poetry. I did this prompt in a workshop with Callie this past summer and it’s one of my favorites. You really can learn so much about yourself (and others) through it!
Where I’m From
I’m from Georgia red clay;
kudzu creeping over the barren land.
Where towering magnolias
overwhelm the air with their perfume.
I am from catfish in the backyard pond.
(But please don’t make me touch
the worms
that squiggle and squish in my fingers
and smell like dry mud.)
I am from fried okra and peach pie;
potluck jello salads at church picnics.
Left unattended,
warmed by the summer sun.
From Grandma’s homemade cookies
fresh out of the oven,
dripping with chocolate chips.
I may wear Oxner genes,
(from my dad),
but I am essentially a Beverage
(like my mom)—
sometimes hot;
sometimes icy cold.
I am a branch of Verla. And Francis too.
Midwest farmers;
New England coopers;
Tossed together like dry tumbleweeds
in the wind.
I am from He walks with me
in the dew-filled garden;
hummed melodies while performing chores.
I’m from Laurel. And Jay. Paula, Amy, April too.
We-can-do-it-on-our-own women;
Never-rely-on-anyone-but-each-other women.
Women made strong from the consuming
fires of life.
Where I’m from inspires;
it reminds, and shapes, and forms.
But it does not define.
Glenda Beall says
I am a Georgia native, Crystal, and your poem hits home with me. Love it.
Karen Paul Holmes says
Hi Crystal! Thanks for reading and sharing. “fried okra and peach pie” = Yum! And so is the rest of your poem!
Megan Willome says
Welcome, your Lauraship! (as Bethany says) Happy to have you sharing at TSP this next year.
Here’s my Where I’m From, that leans a little bit Where I Am.
from dirt so rock-filled
it’s fit for nothing but goats
and, it turns out, grapes
from sunsets that don’t stop
from deserted two-lane highways
that go straight on till morning
from Friday Night Lights
Willie and Waylon and George
darn near every vehicle a truck
from ladies hell-bent for leather
men who cry for the national anthem
kids who can’t wait to leave
then come back, settle down
from cedar that sucks the water from the soil
from mesquite that hardly needs any
from live oaks that seem to live forever
where March’s color riot runs through May
where the cold tap turns warm till Halloween
from people who never ever ever
ever say anything against rain
who pull out lawn chairs to watch storms
from skies still full of stars, the Milky Way
still big and bright
Karen Paul Holmes says
HI Megan, thanks for welcoming me and sharing your rich poem. Favorite line: “darn near every vehicle a truck”
Stacy Bronec says
I am hesitant if I can call this a poem, but it was fun to try. 🙂
//
Where I’m From
I’m from wide-open spaces and starlit skies.
A house surrounded by crops and cows. Not another house in sight.
Gravel roads for miles and miles.
I’m from prayers around the dinner table where the kids bow their heads and say, “Dear God, please bring us rain. And thank you for our crops. Amen.”
The weather can make or break our crop. Or make or break a weekend plan.
Rush hour traffic is cows herded down the road, dust flying behind them. Their bellering and hooves hitting the dirt road are the only sound you hear.
I’m from a place where the wind whips across the prairie, with no trees to slow its power. Muck boots and Carhatts and dirt line our entryway. The dryer vent is full of straw and grain.
I’m from a place where harvest meals take place in the middle of a newly cut wheat field, where our kids learn the birds and the bees from the cows and the bulls.
I’m from a place I never imagined I would be.
Here, I found my voice.
lynn__ says
LOVE your poem, Stacy! I grew up as a big city girl and now live on an Iowa farm where my husband and I have raised 5 sons…along with cattle and corn.
Stacy Bronec says
I love that! We have cattle and row crops in Central Montana! I didn’t grow up in a big city but didn’t grow up on a farm–so it’s been a pretty big change, which you understand!
lynn__ says
Yes, a kind of culture shock really 😉 Nice to meet you, Stacy!
Karen Paul Holmes says
Stacy, you’ve got some great detail in there — it’s so different from where I grew up and that’s super interesting to me! Favorite part: “The dryer vent is full of straw and grain.” Wow, that surely shows us the reality of prairie life!
Thank you for sharing!
Jody Collins says
I wrote an “I Am From” poem several years ago when I was first introduced to Georgia Ella Lyon, the originator of the form.
Here’s mine:
I am from doughboy pools and homemade Barbie houses
from Huffy bikes and Helms Bakery donuts.
I am from three sisters to a room and broad green bermuda lawns.
I am from bright sandy beaches and weeping willows
whose drooping green sheltered me from California’s sun.
I am from Coppertone and Sun-In
from Helen and Wes and John.
I am from belting out a tune and scribbling in the dark
from roller skating and tree-fort-building
from fighting at the top of my lungs and finding quiet at any cost.
I am from Bible stories with Mrs. Cluck and anywhere-you-can-take-5-kids-on-a-Sunday.
I am from the Hebjums and Lindseys, a Best at heart with an adopted name
from porkchops and sauerkraut, applesauce and meatloaf
from a father two generations back that made a grown girl flee
and a mother who lived chasing beauty wherever she could find it, rich or poor.
But mostly poor.
I am from luaus and carnivals, beach trips and berry-picking
babysitting and in charge at age 12 and hiding with a book to make it all go away.
I am from those moments of running, singing, writing, hiding, lying in the sun
but never far from the watchful eye of an invisible Father
held in arms more real than scratchy lawns and doughboy pools and donuts and
roller skates.
A Father more present than my own skin, closer than the sunshine on my bright brown hair.
Lover of my soul who was there every meandering minute, keeping time until I came home.
Karen Paul Holmes says
Jody, your poem is chock-full of life. We also had 5 kids in our family, and I certainly related to this: “I am from Coppertone and Sun-In”
Thank you for sharing!
lynn__ says
Wonderful poetry shared here! Here’s a link to an “I’m from…” list poem I wrote several years ago…the past hasn’t changed (except added to). Enjoy your year as “Poet Laura”, Karen 🙂
https://madhatterpoetry.com/2015/04/24/thats-where-im-from/
Karen Paul Holmes says
Hi Lynn, thanks for stopping by and reading. I tried to open your link but it didn’t work at the moment. I’ll try again later. Thanks for sharing, and I hope others will have success with your link.
lynn__ says
Sorry about that but link worked for me?! If others have trouble, I can copy & paste but will take a lot of space here…
Karen Paul Holmes says
I opened it this time, yay!I think my internet was acting up before. Thank you for sharing your life with us via this poem! We also played with troll dolls, and I had a friend who made clothes for them!
nmDavis says
where i’m from
you could see fields of green
corn where the wind would sing
just like the methodist choir in their shiny robes
the field is still there
people have gone
along with the coal mines
and money
i think doors now get
locked. even in the daytime.
but y’all can still hear the
insects
chirpin-away all summer long
and have you ever had warm
freshly-fried hushpuppies?
Karen Paul Holmes says
NM, it’s interesting how you started with “I’m from,” and then immediately went to “the field is still there.” And that last stanza — yummy! Thanks for sharing.
Sandra Heska King says
Welcome, Your Lauraship! Another homegrown Michigander here, though I currently live in South Florida. I’m from Gaylord, went to nursing school in Saginaw, met my husband in an OB office in Ann Arbor, failed two classes (anthropology and botany!) at U of M cuz the professors wouldn’t let me take my finals early or late–told me to reschedule the wedding. Late-blooming BSN grad from MSU.
I played on train tracks, too and had to cross them to get across the road to the blueberry bog. I also wore cat eye glasses and did The Wah-Watusi.
My husband and I were transferred to Georgia in our early married years. It was a dream come true after reading Gone With the Wind. Some of my most precious memories were made there in that clay under our tall pines and magnolia trees. And I miss my dogwoods. Big sigh…
Here’s a childhood Where I’m From poem I wrote years ago.
*****
Where I’m From
I am from black-and-white two channels
antenna perched on a post turned
to fuzzy and not-so-fuzzy
by hand in all weather
window open.
From always Ford, Appian Way, Campbell’s, and Evening in Paris,
and Avon lipstick samples in the mail.
From Soupy Sales, Ed Sullivan, Sky King,
Kenny Roberts the Jumping Cowboy,
and Tigers baseball.
I am from the little house
three rooms for five
kitchen cupboards chartreuse
and gray formica table,
hemmed by woods
and buttoned with a propane tank.
Four log cabins heated with kerosene
for company and customers
hunters and National Guard
and a single-seater outhouse
inhabited by snakes.
I am from the birch tree and the Juneberry
the blueberry bog, wild strawberries, spore-spotted fern forts,
morels, and green pads with yellow bobbers
floating.
I am from one-at-a-time tinsel on the tree,
playing cards, Paul Bunyan tales, rowboats and bluegills
and Thunder Bay pike.
I am from James the shanty boy and Edwin the dulcimer player,
from William the gardener and fresh-picked rhubarb dipped in sugar.
I am from Grandma Dummer (dew’-mer) and books of the month,
crochet hooks and limburger cheese,
with old-fashioned candies, hard and cream-filled.
I am from poets and musicians and readers and artists and builders,
and practical jokers.
From paper and pencils and pages,
manual typewriters and carbon.
I am from clean-your-plate-or-no-dessert
and do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do.
I am from the Golden Rule and the Ten Commandments
letters to Aunt Emma (Sister Lucinda)
Baptist friends
a box of scripture verses
and Sunday funnies.
I am from a pleasant peninsula, a water-winter wonderland,
the Great Lakes State.
I am from unleavened pancakes, ambrosia, broiled chicken,
and tiny morsels of liver swimming in catsup,
swallowed whole,
soft-boiled eggs and sour cream on everything.
I am from the scent of pipe tobacco and sawdust, coffee and cigarettes,
railroad ties and forest fragrances
and strains of Oh, What a Beautiful Morning.
I am from the Horizontal Queen of Horseshoe Lake
with the fishhook in her cheek,
a bartender with his name on a bullet,
and a wrestling-loving grandmother.
I am from albums black and white and wedding check stubs,
crocheted dresses and a gold-gilded pitcher,
an Alpine costume that no longer fits and a plastic-flowered crown.
I am from wood and earth and water,
feathers and fur and scales,
from greens and blues and browns
and deep white snow.
Window open.
Karen Paul Holmes says
HI Sandra. Boy do we ever have a lot in common. Soupy Sales, Ed Sullivan, Sky King, Tigers baseball, Oh What a Beautiful Morning, etc. etc. You sure did mine your past to include so many the interesting details. Because you wrote: ‘I am from a pleasant peninsula, a water-winter wonderland, the Great Lakes State,’ you might like this poem — the epigraph is “Michigan’s state slogan was once Water Winter Wonderland.” If you go to the Table of Contents, you can click on page 7, and it will jump to my poem. Thanks for sharing yours!
https://www.gyroscopereview.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/03/Spring-2021-2-Gyroscope-Review-Web.pdf
Sandra Heska King says
Oh, I love it! There’s no place like home. I’m actually up here right now doing a little caregiving for my daughter who had some surgery. It snowed this morning. Just a little and already melting. But while we used to get those icy road warnings here, we get “falling iguana” alerts down there. Seriously. When the temperature drops to below about 40, they stiffen up and fall out of trees. When it warms up, they wake up and go about their business.
I loved “a world dozing, snuffed in cotton.” And “the lake frosted with icy meringue.” We’ve ridden the Badger. We took the ferry across to Drummond a few years back and came straight home to buy our own kayaks. Now we take them out and paddle with alligators. But there’s nothing like the Great Lakes–no sharks or stingrays or salt.
Thanks so much for sharing this. I’m looking forward to your poetry ponderings.
Karen Paul Holmes says
Thanks so much for reading the linked poem, and I’m happy you liked it. So funny (and sad) about the iguanas! I sure don’t miss the Michigan winters. Best to your daughter in her recovery.
Rebecca Dulin says
As I thought about where I’m from this short poem materialized:
Crawling up on grandma’s lap
face against the cow’s warm belly
smell of fresh milk, barn and hay
soon the taste of biscuits and jelly
“Come on home now, momma’s yelling
‘cross the field — no need for phone
Running back and hugging grandma
dinner’s ready and daddy’s home!
Karen Paul Holmes says
Thank you for sharing this sweet poem. As Sharmen commented below, you’ve covered all the senses.
Sharmen Oswald says
I love the visual image I have reading this concise poem. All of the senses are engaged! I can smell the fresh, warm milk. I can taste the biscuits and hear the yell to come home. Of course, who can’t relate to a grand hug!