The House With Nobody in It
By Bill Shephard
Bill Shepard
The saddest thing that I’ve ever known,
Is a house, a house that used to be a home.
Now there’s a difference between a house and a home,
Let me tell you about it in this poem.
A house is a building made of wood and stone,
But it takes more than this to make a house, a home,
You may add to it furniture, fixtures and things,
But all you have is earthly things.
I passed by a house the other day,
It seemed that the occupants had all moved away.
It was just a house with the roof caved in,
But I couldn’t help but think of what it had been.
I bet it was a house that was once filled with laughter,
That echoed from the floor clear up to the rafters,
And if you ask me, it won’t take me long,
To say, it takes this to make a house a home.
I bet that house one day was filled,
With voices that were loud and shrill,
Voices of children happy at play,
But now it seemed so quiet, they had all moved away.
And if you ask me, it won’t take me long
To say it takes this to make a house a home,
Children busy and happy at play
And a mother and daddy to enjoy them that way.
I looked at the house and I thought, what a shame,
It looked so sad, with its broken window panes,
And I wondered if somewhere there was a girl and a boy
Who would add to this house a little bit of joy.
If some boy would just take his spouse,
And move into this dejected old house,
Fill it with love and let children be born,
He’d change this old house back to a home.
Yes, you can build a house of all sorts of things,
But it’s just a house until laughter rings,
Rings from the floor, all the way to the ceiling,
And gives that house a homey feeling.
I passed a house the other day,
And all of its occupants had moved away,
And I was sad and wanted to cry,
Instead, I just passed on by.
The Story Behind the Poem – – –
While traveling along a winding road, my attention was drawn to an old house. It was evident from the appearance that the house had not been lived in for a very long time. The roof was caving in and the windows had been boarded up. Vines of a sort had crept along its sidewalls, and a gaping hole appeared where the front door had been. Why my attention had been drawn to the old house remains a question even to this day a long, long time afterwards. The year was 1969. Returning home from the church where I was going that day, the old house kept appearing in my mind. Before sleep would take over that night, I wrote the poem. Now you know the story behind the poem.
Mr. Shepard is a native of Darlington, S.C., and a current resident of Piedmont, S.C. He is the author of “Mill Town Boy” and “Bruised”. He has been sharing his tales of growing up in Darlington for decades, and we are delighted to share them each week.
His mailing address for cards and letters is: Bill Shepard 324 Sunny Lane, Piedmont, S.C. 29673.
