Quotes About Home

People don't get attacked by packs of rats in their own homes.

She disengages the top deadbolt, then the bottom one

discovered the deadbolt hadn't been engaged.

Even after all these uneventful years on Jacob's Ladder, I still lock the door every night.

Cookies,Emily explained. There isn't a man alive who doesn't appreciate homemade cookies. There's something magical about them--really, she added when Suzannah cast her a doubtful glance.Cookies create an aura of domestic bliss--it sounds crazy, but it's true.A man can't resist a woman who bakes him cookies. They remind him of home and mother and a fire crackling in the fireplace.

As if this was more than she could imagine, Amiee asked, "What about a stove with more than two burners and an oven that actually works?" "All yours," Steve assured her.

Not knowing what else to try, she got out her heavy cast-iron skillet and banged it against the top of the rad in hopes of reviving the ageing pipes. The noise was deafening, vibrating through the room like a jet aircraft crashing through the sound barrier.

I once read that during the Civil War women of the south would soak these cloth buttons in perfume and then sew them into the collars of their men's shirts. That way the scent was a constant reminder of their loved ones waiting for them at home.

After all, it wan't every day that someone got adopted by a dog.

There was just enough room for her bed, a nightstand and her beloved sewing machine. Mom didn't sew these days, but that machine had been a major part of her life for so many years, she'd never feel at home without it.

I'm sure we all have dreams of leaving at some time in our lives, but when we reach the bottom, most of us go running home.

Grandmother was gone. The house was gone. Green Valley was gone.

A kitchen that's too clean has no soul. No flavor.

Ultimately, I hoped the tiny-house guy was similar to me: a sane person without a big agenda, who simply wanted a way to make sense of the world, to create a new map with a big X in the middle labeled Home, even if that meant shrinking his world down to the size of an area rug.

My friends stood on the ground two feet below me, and miles away from understanding why I would want to sleep on a trailer platform... I couldn't possibly begin to explain what was only beginning to bud inside me: I wanted a home. I wanted to be at home, in the world and in my body (a feeling I had been missing since I'd woken up in the hospital) and somehow, in some as yet undefined way, I knew that windows in the great room and a skylight over my bed were going to help with that.

He was my true home. My first safe place.

He didn't know what country he was in, but he was at home in the universe.

He was a man who knew he'd come in after a long day and had found his shade (Irma)

Your identity doesn't come from your address.

I want you to be my wife, baby. I want to come home to you every night and hear your laughter. I want to build a life together with all the things that matter. I want there to be family, and sailing, and church, and work, and kids . . ." Her lips trembled on a smile. "Five little angels?" He squeezed her hands. "I was thinking we'd start with one and work our way up. What about it, Maddy—will you marry me?

When a woman once asked Joe how he could come from such a magnificent home and such a good family and still become a gangster, Joe's answer was two-pronged: (a) he wasn't a gangster, he was an outlaw; (b) he came from a magnificent house not a magnificent home.

I do not live in you, I bear my house inside me, everywhere until your winters grow more kind by the dancing firelight of mind where knobs of brass do not exist whose doors dissolve in tenderness House that lets in, at last, those fears that are its guests, to sit on chairs feasts on their human faces, and takes pity simply by the hand shows her her room, and feels the hum of wood and brick becoming home.

For there is a time in the tide of the heart, when Arrived at its anchor of suffering, a grave Or a bed, despairing in action, we ask O God, where is our home?

At home, Rommel played the violin in an amateurish fashion but was otherwise easy to live with.