The wise man built his house upon the rock.  He cleared the land, moulded logs into a sanctuary, took this pilgrim stance upon Muskoka foundation, built this beauty with blood and chainsaw and native trees - painting history and future hidden from the road and the neighbours.

We have no right here, no claim to this legacy, no branch to contribute from our own family tree.  We are not family.  But it feels like home.

We eat as moon begins it's sedated climb and sun slow-burns the edges of autumn.  The air dances with the smells of summer and we say so many times, "I can't believe it's October!"  Horseshoes soar, unlucky but cheered.  Wine bottles flash pictures of the wise man and his forever love, a freeze frame capture of so long ago, before they knew their own story - the loosing and the finding.  Children explore, wield sticks, break rocks, eat pie.  The dog eats the butter.  Fire smoke burns eyes but not spirits.

It is impossible not to be thankful.