My grandfather was a simple man. Simple, not stupid. He was born in the first year of the twentieth century, on the family farm in upstate New York. The farm was in a friendly sounding town called Henrietta, and had been in the Aldrich family since sometime in the late 1600's to early 1700's. It was either on, or near an Indian trail that went to Canada.
Enough about the family farm. I only saw it once, a a quick glance as we were driving past it when I was a teen. It was sold in the 1980's and is now a housing complex on Jefferson Highway, I think the name of the road was.
My grandfather left the farm before he was even a teen, to make his own way in the world. He married, had kids and was self employed for the majority of his life. His home was simply furnished; his table held simple food.
And when something, like a pie, was especially good, he'd say "Now that is a little slice of heaven!"
I was thinking of that last night when I should have been asleep. I hadn't heard that expression in almost 30 years, a little slice of heaven.
I've tried to make my home "a little slice of heaven," a peaceful place. A place where you don't have to worry about being attacked, physically or mentally. A place where teasing is good natured, and brief. A place where you are always welcomed. A place that when you walk through the door, you feel relief. Where dinners are eaten together, and where conversations are friendly, not stilted or tense. Where laughing is heard more than a raised voice.
Other "little slices of heaven":
* a baby sleeping
* the peace that fills a home when the last member arrives home
* hot chocolate on a cold day
* the smell of pumpkin pie baking
* sitting in front of a woodstove on a winter day
* first sliding into a hot, perfumed bathtub
* the random scent of lilac or honeysuckle that briefly reminds you of your childhood
* the scent of autumn on the air
* freshly mowed grass
* the scent that comes after the rain