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The clipping this text was read from
The clipping this text was read from

aged. The stove lids were as rosy as his cheeks. The faint aroma of hickory was an “amen” to the invitation. Warm and challenging against the winter chill, the stove was a natural attraction and everyone moved closer to it, and seemingly to each other.

“What is this, an old Home Comfort?” we asked, again knowing the answer.

“Yes,” was the farmer’s proud reply. “Bought it when we was first married.”

We delivered a number of baskets that Christmas Eve. But, back home, relaxed, feet propped next to my own Home Comfort, faraway thoughts mingled with fancy.

Why this quiet sense of repose? Yes, my feet were warm, the chair comfortable, but those two humble homes had breathed a sense of tranquility. And everyone had shown a glow of satisfaction, a warmth of well-being that everything was all right.

Was it just by chance this peace had enveloped us all, or was it that white label that had triggered this blessing?

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