Gran's Apple Butter Blog

February 7, 2012

Going Home, Excerpt: On The Inside (8VII)

Chapter 8 ~ On The Inside

Of course, Gran’s home was close to spotless – she didn’t keep any dust bunnies around. Gran was the only person I knew who vacuumed every day of the week except Sundays, then walked around picking up specks of link no one else could see. She had grandma eyes. You know – ones that can spot a dirty fingernail a mile away. That comes in handy with dust bunnies.

Gran was smart enough to see her own weakness. She knew keeping her house so clean qualified as a rather large Glaring Error in her quest to step away from perfectionitis. She never encouraged me to sweep my house every day, and I think she was secretly proud that her daughter rebelled against this practice.

In spite of that personal weak spot, or perhaps because of it, Gran had a theory about immaculate houses. She felt pretty sure it simply wasn’t possible to keep a squeaky clean house in this ol’ world and be truly happy and healthy inside it. She’d come to realize that her extreme cleanliness, rather than being a straight shot on up to godliness, was actually more of a cover-up for things she couldn’t hide or hadn’t been ready to change – things she’d had to come to terms with.

True, her house was beautiful – it looked lovely. She was always ready for company, but that made it challenging to spend time indoors. Maybe that’s why we sat on the porch so much. You didn’t want to walk away from your book or plate or knitting or whatever else you might be doing – when you came back, it’d be gone.

After some digging Gran began to see what that house represented to her, and why she was keeping it so carefully, hoping to distract others – especially herself – from what was going on inside. For a long time, she’d thought that if she could keep the outside surfaces spotless, that might make the inside spotless too. Then one day she was reading about the pots of the Pharisees, how they were pretty on the outside in a way that only covered up the darkness within, [i] and it hit her that this sounded a lot like her own home.

It must have hit pretty hard, ‘cause for years to come, Gran’s house was never the same. It looked like a construction zone, and no frilly dust cover was big enough to hide that. She went to work on that house in a very different way, and the end result was a sight to behold, inside and out, the parts you could see and the ones you could only feel. A lot changed. Some of the changes were hard to live through, but she said it was totally worth it, and she only wished she’d started the whole process sooner.

She learned something from all this that she tried hard to teach me. Sometimes we look at others and compare our lives to theirs. We get to feeling sorry for ourselves, complaining that life is so hard, and why this and why that and “it’s not fair.” We look at our neighbor’s big house and perfect family and get a little green twinge inside, thinking, why can’t my life be like that? When this happens, Gran said, it would serve us well to remember her story, or even Tina and Stan’s – the homeless rich girl and the bridge-dwelling king.

Not being one to learn by example, I later found out for myself how right Gran was. The way things appear on the outside may be very different from how they are on the inside, and only those on the inside know what’s really going on. Sometimes the prettiest appearances are just facades, set on display for the world to see. We paint our own walls and don’t even realize we’re doing it.

It takes time – sometimes a long time – to ever see this. At least it did for me. In the process I learned not to look at others and wish my feet were in their shoes. I began to look with my heart as well as my eyes, which made all the difference in the world.

One thing about it, I’ve learned to look past a little dust in my house – the brick-and-mortar one, anyway. Who has time for it? Let’s keep things neat, and relatively clean, but hey – that dust is gonna be back in two or three days, tops. And I’m pretty sure I have more important things to do on the inside of these walls. Those few little dust bunnies lying around, they’ll be ok. I’ll take care of them before they get out of hand.

But for now, I’ll just give ‘em names and make sure they don’t go hungry, and we’ll be pals for a while. And I’m pretty good with that.

[i]Mark 7:1-23, KJV


© Mary Batson, Going Home, Front Porch Rambles, and Gran’s Apple Butter Blog, 2010-2011. All rights reserved.
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March 22, 2011

Going Home, Excerpt: Drowning (5/III)

Filed under: Books,Dam,Emotions,Front Porch Rambles,Going Home,Gran,Packing,Planning,Preparing,Self Development,Walls,Water — Mary Batson - FrontPorchRambles @ 12:48 pm

Chapter 5 – Drowning
from Going Home, by Mary Batson

There are many reasons we’re afraid to open even a crack in our walls, Gran said. Like drowning. You see, emotions are like water. You can let them flow or you can dam ‘em up. When she was younger Gran had done the latter for so long she began to think she didn’t feel emotions. But this was just an illusion she’d concocted to protect herself, hiding inside a wall of numbness. Gran was thankful for the shelter this had provided, but eventually she felt ready to move on. That took some doing, though – it didn’t just happen.

Gran said the walls we build around ourselves can be like the Hoover Dam. Except instead of standing on top and admiring the view, we find ourselves standing at the bottom on the dry side, looking up at a vast expanse of concrete holding back a sea of unexpressed emotion. In blocking the water out, we’ve blocked ourselves in, and there doesn’t seem to be an emergency exit.

We stand there frozen, brave on the outside, terrified within. That’s a whole lot of water in there, and we know how powerful water can be. Shutting our eyes, we strain to hear any noises that might mean fingernail cracks and shoo away the carrier pigeons that circle above. Even if they had a message for us, we’re too afraid to let ‘em get close enough to deliver it. We’ll protect that dam with our lives, ’cause we’re pretty sure that’s what depends on it.

If we’ll let go of this fear long enough to open our eyes, Gran said, we’ll see several ways to improve the situation. There’s an exit sign just over there, and a ladder along the side, if we want to climb out. If that’s too strenuous, way over in the corner is a little water faucet. Don’t worry, it’s adjustable.

If we turn it on just a hair, the drops of water can be absorbed into the ground. Or if we’re feeling brave, there’s a big hose hanging nearby. We can ask the fire department to help us hook it up, to direct a jet stream far down into the valley. Or we can set up a sprinkler and let it gently feed the land, watching the little flowers that pop up to tell us the long, cold winter is over.

Of course, all these options require us to do something, Gran said. We can also walk away and go down to live in the valley, convincing ourselves there is no dam. Sure, it’s dry and dusty, hard for anything to grow in that desert, since the stream that fed the valley got dammed up along with all the rest of that water. But it feels safe.

We convince ourselves we’re safe, forgetting all we know about water buildup and preventative maintenance. If we sometimes remember that wall with a smidgen of concern, we sooth ourselves with the idea that if a leak springs all we have to do is plug it with our finger and all will be well. This might have worked for Hans, Gran said, but she wouldn’t recommend anyone try this at home.

We can go on like this for years, dancing in the valley with unseeing eyes, unaware of everything we’ve shut out. Unaware, that is, ‘til we begin to hear ominous creaks and groans in the night. We try to shut them out, too, pulling a pillow over our ears. If we do that long enough, Gran said, this problem will take care of itself, and us along with it. Or, if we choose to wake up, to remember the dam and all those tools lying next to it, we can hike back to the head of that valley and start the work we weren’t ready for the first time.

This task can seem so daunting we may try to convince ourselves we don’t really care what happens anyway. This is always an option. But there’s a neat trick to this, Gran said. We have help, although we may not realize it. Like the shoemaker’s elves – the ones who did his work when he got too sick for it. But first he had to ask, Gran reminded me, and that’s a lesson in itself.

Being a fan of both gardening and the slow-but-sure method, Gran’s favorite approach involved that sprinkler. She was a bit of a country girl, you know, and she knew a thing or two about the power of water, especially in its flood stages along Deer Creek. Gran ran that sprinkler for a long time, gardening away, growing flowers and vegetables and all kinds of good stuff.

One evening she noticed water pooling in a corner of the slope, the ground sinking a bit. The next morning when she returned, she found a great big hole where that depression had been, with a spring at the bottom where the valley stream had originally burst through from higher up the mountain. There it was again, bubbling merrily along.

As the water level lowered, Gran dismantled her dam, one layer of concrete blocks at a time. Finally the way stood free, wind blowing gently past, sun falling on sparkling waters, all back to center, and this time it held.

That, Gran said, was a beautiful day, and some excellent motivation for planning her next trip.

© Mary Batson, Going Home, Front Porch Rambles, and Gran’s Apple Butter Blog, 2010. All rights reserved.
NOW AVAILABLE: Going Home, The E-Book & Going Home: The Tour LIVE – 2 CD set – Mikey and Gran’s story put to music!

March 15, 2011

Going Home, Excerpt: Reasons Why (5/II)

Filed under: Front Porch Rambles,Going Home,Gran,Life Journeys,Packing,Planning,Preparing,Self Development — Mary Batson - FrontPorchRambles @ 2:27 pm

Chapter 5 – Reasons Why
from Going Home, by Mary Batson

One of the first things to figure out is why we’re going home, because the answer to that question will shape every other decision along our way. This is what will get us started and keep us going when everything and everyone else in our lives – even the voices in our heads – say, “You don’t have time for a trip now. How selfish! Just stay where you are and keep your nose to the grindstone.”

If we listen to these voices, we’ll do just that. We’ll keep our nose there ‘til it’s worn to the bone, ‘til we’re worn to the bone, ‘til we have no energy left to go home, and we can’t even remember why we wanted to go there in the first place. That’s why Gran said we need to learn the difference between big-loud-bully voices, sweet-enough-to-get-their-way voices, and that still, small voice within.

We go home for different reasons. Sometimes life changes compel us to travel when we might not have otherwise made that choice. Perhaps someone is ill, or going home – maybe even you. If everyone stays very aware, times like these can bring us together. But this isn’t easy to do when we’re in pain, so Gran advised packing an extra long rope for these journeys. You know, so you can cut everyone – including yourself – a lot of slack.

In these brief windows we can let down our guards and just be together, without all the noise and interference of our daily lives. These moments shake us out of the hazy circles we run around in, Gran said, thinking we’re getting somewhere, not realizing we’re running in a little track wheel, well-intentioned-but-mostly-asleep. We think it’s funny to watch a hamster do this. It’s not so funny to think about doing it ourselves.

Gran said these times offer an incredible opportunity, if we’re ready for it, to reconnect with ourselves and others in all new ways. We can let go of our egos, our need-to-be-right, and our obsession with staying busy. We can stop trying to prove our worth to a world we’re afraid doesn’t even know we exist, much less cares about who we are on the inside.  

Some of Gran’s favorite memories were of times when she wasn’t afraid to let someone into her soul, when others weren’t afraid to let her into theirs. Real emotions come up at these times, she said, and if we’ll slow down enough to drop our projections and expectations and allow ourselves to experience these feelings and express them to each other, miracles can happen.

We have the choice whether or not to open up. Not everyone wants to do this, Gran said, at least not consciously. When a person has been shut inside tall, thick walls for a long time, stepping outside can seem unbearably threatening, no matter how sad and lonely we may be on the inside. Maybe we’re not sure we can find the door, or if one is even there.   

But when we finally get sick enough of the view in there, sick enough to try anything, to even push through our fears, what comes next is beyond life changing. Courage is action through fear, and consciously deciding to break down your walls from the inside out when you don’t even know what’s waiting on the outside – well, Gran said that’s the most incredibly empowering thing she’s ever experienced. Break-downs become break-throughs become breaks-of-day, and darkness turns to light.

Gran understood that our biggest challenge is our fear of the journey itself, bigger than even the fear of our own light.[i] She wished we could understand that fear is just a big, heavy-breathin’ bully, scary on the outside, weak as a leaf within. But when we don’t realize how strong we are, that we can move mountains if we’ll set our minds to it, we let fear have the upper hand, instead of callings its bluff.

We always have a choice in this situation, Gran said, and we’re already holding the winning hand. But we’ll have to open our eyes and loosen our grip in order to see the Royal Flush we’re clutching.

[i] An incredible reminder from Marianne Williamson
© Mary Batson, Going Home, Front Porch Rambles, and Gran’s Apple Butter Blog, 2010. All rights reserved.
NOW AVAILABLE: Going Home, The E-Book & Going Home: The Tour LIVE – 2 CD set – Mikey and Gran’s story put to music!

July 26, 2010

1/II: Mikale Steps In

Filed under: Going Home,Grandma,Life Journeys,Loss,Mikey,Self Development — Mary Batson - FrontPorchRambles @ 3:24 pm

Mikale Steps In
Excerpt from Going Home, by Mary Batson

Mikey remembering home: That’s how the story began in the manuscript I’d found among my grandmother’s papers. And yet, when I lifted the flap to peer inside the envelope, seeing the typewritten pages, I realized I wasn’t ready for what was inside. Even without knowing what the words said, something inside me gave a shudder. I could feel a twisting in my soul, a stab of pain so deep it felt like my heart might split open, exposing what was left inside to a world that would mock it, searing its scars all the more deeply. Not now. Too soon. Whatever it was, I didn’t want to know.

And that was enough. I closed the envelope, careful to fold it along the original creases that Gran had made, and put it back in the box, secure in the not-knowing, feeling the clamor calm within, my heart rate returning to normal and the knot in my stomach loosening a hair’s width. That was then.

And now, what now? It’s been just over a year. And here I sit, surrounded by pages, tears streaming down my face, heart raw inside. Where has the time gone? The feeling? The knowing? HOW COULD I HAVE FORGOTTEN? Breathe with your belly, as one of my dearest friends often tells me, breathe with your belly. Ok, girl, I’m trying. I’m really trying. In and out, in and out,  warm inside, flooding through, don’t hold the emotion, don’t attach to it, sit back and watch it do its dance, let it through, let it go, relax into the feeling, and just let      it      go.

Now. Deep breath. Back to center. Turn to page one again, and start reading, again.

Three times I’ve read these pages today. Three times the flood of emotions has threatened to overwhelm me, even now. Sometimes I start to pat myself on the back, thinking how far I’ve come on all this. Good for me, I want to say. And then something like this comes along and knocks me completely off my feet, if only for a moment, and it reminds me that I still have so far to go. I have come far, my journey has been long. And yet as I read these pages I begin to realize that all that time, all those years, I was walking in a circle. Today, reading, I find myself lost in a mix of wonder and sorrow because I realize that in all my wandering, when I finally look up and see that I Am Where I Always Wanted to Be, as Mikey would put it, that my footsteps have, slowly but surely, simply led me ’round the world — and I find myself once more where I stood many years ago — on the front steps of my home, hand on the doorknob, ready to go inside. If only, if only, if only. Too many ifs. How might things have been different, if I’d only seen what I see now? And yet, I realize that wasn’t possible. It was only by stepping away long and far enough to be able to get a broad view – the whole forest – that I could begin to see and feel clearly enough to come back to the same spot where I was before, and see it for the reflected glory that it truly was.

What a journey. The more I think about it, the more it amazes me, and the more I understand the words of the letter clipped to the manuscript. As my tears ran through the ink, I read aloud, Gran’s voice echoing in my head, her message soothing my heart.

                                                                                                    January 1976  

Dear Mikey,

By the time you find these pages, you’ll be ready to finish our book.

I know you want to DO IT NOW — you’ve reminded me of that several times, obviously unhappy with my decision to put our story away for now. But Mikey, you have so much still to experience in life, so much to learn about being a mere mortal. I can tell you this now, with the surety of my own years, my own journey. I know you remember a lot about Home, and I love that — I love to see your eyes brighten and sparkle as you remember, and I love to watch you struggle to come up with words to describe what you feel in your heart, your soul.

But there will come a time when this will mean so much more to you, when you will begin to understand on such a completely different level. Until you have experienced loss, until you have experienced the longing that comes when you fear that you can no longer go home, not even to yourself, until then, you won’t be ready to finish this work. By the time you are, I will be long since gone. I know this, sure as I know the geese will return to our little pond next April. And you’ll understand why I’m putting these pages away now, sweet little Mikey. I love you, precious girl. Love everybody and they will love you.

I’ll never forget our afternoons together on the front porch, sharing our thoughts of home. They brought a joy that I hope will heal your heart as you read these pages and begin their completion. And now, my budding authoress and lover of words: WRITE.

With all the hugs our years could hold,

You’re right, Gran — I feel the joy. It seems bittersweet, and ironic, as I sit here smiling through my tears. You were right all along. And now, to pick up a pen — to write.


© Mary Batson, Going Home, Front Porch Rambles, and Gran’s Apple Butter Blog, 2010. All rights reserved.
Download Chapter 1 or order your copy at!

1/I: Mikey’s Story

Filed under: Death,Feeling Homesick,Going Home,Grown-Up Standards,Life Journeys,Loss,Mikey,One Real Home,Self Development — Mary Batson - FrontPorchRambles @ 2:55 pm

Chapter 1. Mikey’s Story
Excerpt from Going Home, by Mary Batson

“There are two ways of spreading light: To be the candle or the mirror that receives it.” – Edith Wharton

Sooner or later, we all want to go home. At least that’s what my grandma says. At first I wasn’t quite sure what she meant by that. And just when I thought I had it all figured out, I found out she was talking about something totally different. But maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m remembering wrong. Maybe. Maybe not.

You see, it’s not that complicated. I mean, I’m only five years old, which by grown-up standards (and there are So Many Grown-Up Standards) means I still have a lot to learn. But even I get this. Sometimes, I think I get it better than most grown-ups. But I try to be patient. Most of the grown-ups I know have a Lot on Their Minds. They have a Lot of Balls In The Air. At first I thought that meant some kind of game, but I’m beginning to suspect otherwise now. They tell me I’ll learn about this before long. I don’t think I’m looking forward to it.

But I know about Going Home. I know because I was there not too long ago. And I can remember it. The feeling. The knowing. The Love. And it seems so sad and strange to me, that all the grown-ups here have forgotten the Truth. It’s like forgetting your own address. How could you forget your o-w-n address? Isn’t that why you have your name written in the back of your jacket and on your lunch box and in your Under-Roos? So you don’t forget? Don’t grown-ups wear Under-Roos? Carry lunchboxes? Heck, some of ’em carry around great big books and stuff that I don’t even know what it’s called. Surely they have their address written down in there, just in case? Have they really forgotten their address, their way Home? Have you?

Ok, I’ll admit, I don’t know you. I’ll probably never meet you. And if I do, I probably won’t talk to you, ‘cause my grandma told me to never talk to strangers. I think that r-u-l-e is a little strange, if you ask me, because to me, no one feels like a stranger. How can they, when we are all really just One? But Gran has explained (over and over again!) that while I’m with this family, even though she and I know the truth, I still have to learn How Things Work Here. Truth is, there are no strangers here, she’d say, just friends we haven’t met yet. But for now, apparently, Here one Doesn’t Talk To Strangers. Gran says her grandmother taught her this when she was my age. Ok. Well, I don’t really get it, but I can go along with that. Just seems kinda sad. And lonely.

There’s something else I don’t understand. Here it seems like everyone is so sad when someone Goes Home. I’ve seen it happen, in my own house, when Grandpa Harry Went Home. And my bus driver. And the lady next door with the calico cat. It seems like when this happens everyone cries and cries. I try hard to help people feel better, but when I tell them that it is a GOOD thing to Go Home, that it is something to celebrate like my next birthday (you’re invited, by the way), they just look at me and kind of breathe heavy and pat my head and say things like “Someday you’ll understand.”

But that’s not true. I already understand. I do. I DO. It’s everyone else who doesn’t. Some of my friends do. We talk about how strange grown-ups are sometimes. How they seem to have everything backwards. They laugh when they should cry, and cry when they should laugh. They do all kinds of crazy things that a-n-y-one should know better, and then wonder why things turn out like they do. Like working too much. Of COURSE you get sick if you work all the time. Duh. Even I know that. And I’m only five.

Some grown-ups do seem to know a bit more about How Things Really Are. Like my grandma. She’s pretty cool. She knows A Lot. Like she knows about wanting to Go Home. See, I didn’t really understand that, because I was JUST home — so I’m not in a hurry to go back. I’m ready for a Big Adventure! But Gran says that when someone has been adventuring for a grand long time, sooner or later they’ll get tired, and they’ll start missing Home.

You know, they miss all the good stuff Home stands for. Like warm blankets and soft pillows and fresh cookies and hot chocolate and love everywhere around and red mittens and fingerprints on windows. Like admiring the fresh snow out the front window and watching your dad come around the corner of the house, tramping out a path to the mailbox. Like sitting in the kitchen floor, industriously rearranging one’s car collection, making paths through the flour that sifts to the baseboards from the snickerdoodle production taking place at countertop level. Like taking the scraps out after dinner and turning around to see the Lights in the Windows and that warm feeling that starts in your tummy and goes all through your insides when you think of hurrying back in. Like watching for car lights coming down the dirt road when it’s dinner time and you’ve claimed the wishbone and are just WAITING for everyone to get home so you can find out Who Will Be Lucky Tonight.

You know, that kind of stuff. The Important Stuff.

But that’s not all. There are different kinds of Homes and different kinds of warm fuzzy feelings. Well, that’s not quite right. There a-r-e different kinds of Homes. But you know that fuzzy feeling? It’s the same for all Homes. It feels the same, it tastes the same, it means the same, ‘cause it all comes from the same place. Even with all the different kinds of homes, it all gets back to One Very Own Home. And all the other kinds of homes are like strings of paper snowflakes that are very pretty and Good to Decorate With, but they’re not really Snow. They just REMIND us of Snow, like all these other kinds of homes remind us of our One Real Home. Kinda like funhouse mirrors.

So that’s why Gran says that when people are away from home for a long time, or when they start feeling bad, like when I ate too many chocolate turtles at Jonah’s house, or the very first time I had a sleepover at my cousin’s (the time she stole all the blankets and wouldn’t share her LiteBrite), that we get a different kind of fuzzy feeling — a not-very-nice fuzzy feeling. Gran called it “Feeling Homesick.” And she said that sometimes, when you feel Homesick, nothing else will do but to Go Home. For me, as soon as I saw Mom and my own little house, I felt 100% better.

But Gran explained that when people Go Home, it’s a little more complicated. Well, it’s kind of the same. You know, that person just Isn’t There anymore. Like when I went home from Jonah’s. I just wasn’t there anymore. And when grown-ups go home, it’s kinda the same. I mean, your body isn’t There. That would be kind of silly. A body without you in it? How weird would that be?!? And yet, at the same time, YOU are still there. Just in a different way. Really, kinda, you’re EVERYWHERE. And you can go everywhere and do everything and see everything and be everywhere. All in the very same second, maybe! I’m not sure on that one.

But I know that you’re still There (and by that I mean Here), because Grandpa told me so. Right after he Went Home, he told me. We had a big talk about it, and it was so great, because finally I had a grown-up to talk to who knew all about Home! I asked him all kinds of questions, if everything was still like I remembered it, and he said it was, and even Better Than Ever. That was pretty cool. I wanted to tell Gran about his visit, but he told me that she might not understand and he didn’t want her to be worried, so I just told her I had a dream about him and about Home and how great it all was. And she was so happy, and smiling, and gave me a big hug, and she had a strange little twinkle in her eyes that made me wonder if maybe she knew a little bit more about Home than Grandpa thought she did.

© Mary Batson, Going Home, Front Porch Rambles, and Gran’s Apple Butter Blog, 2010. All rights reserved.
Download Chapter 1 or order your copy at!

July 24, 2010

Welcome to Gran’s Front Porch

Filed under: Book Series,Circle of Life,Front Porch Rambles,Going Home,Grandma,Life Journeys,Loss,Love,Self Development — Mary Batson - FrontPorchRambles @ 6:06 pm

“Sooner or later, we all want to go home. At least that’s what my grandma says. At first I wasn’t quite sure what she meant by that. And just when I thought I had it all figured out, I found out she was talking about something totally different. But maybe’s she right. Maybe I’m remembering wrong. Maybe. Maybe not…”  (from Going Home, by Mary Batson)

We spend all our lives “going home” in one way or another – coming home inside ourselves, coming home from work or school, going home to visit family, or, in the end, our final Going Home. The stages of each of these goings home are the same – the preparation, the packing, the journey. In a way, each of these journeys is a reflection of each of the others, and our ideas about home are all the same, too, if we’ll only open our eyes wide enough to see.

Welcome to Gran’s front porch, where “she of the great white rocking chair and I of the little wooden steps” first began to write about all these journeys. Five-year-old Mikale Ann, nicknamed Mikey because she’s a tomboy, has a better memory than most children. And her grandma is smarter than most grown-ups. Going Home opens on those same steps as Mikey shares her story, then blossoms into something else entirely as a grown-up Mikale begins to remember Gran’s Guidelines for Going Home…


And so begins the story of Going Home, the first in the new book series “Front Porch Rambles.” Opening with the voice of Mikey at age 5, this story explores the various stages of “going home” through tales from both Gran and Mikey’s lives. Chapter 1 shares Mikey’s story, followed by Gran’s in Chapter 2. Chapter 3 introduces the big picture of what “going home” really means, while Chapters 4 to 8 take a cross view of each stage along the way, starting with home base (who, where, and what we start with in life), moving into planning, preparing and packing (what we decide to take with us), sharing the journey (who we choose to take with us), road rules for along the way (from picking a map to navigation), and finally, our arrival: You Have Reached Your Destination. Having come full circle on her own journey, Mikey closes the story with her Love Letter to Gran.

As I begin the more time-consuming details of publication, Mikey and Gran have asked me to begin sharing their story with you here on Gran’s Apple Butter Blog. Welcome to Gran’s front porch — we hope you enjoy your time here!

Mary, Mikey & Gran
© Mary Batson, Going Home, Front Porch Rambles, and Gran’s Apple Butter Blog, 2010. All rights reserved.
Download Chapter 1 or order your copy at!

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