January 19th, 2015 by Jan

This week begins in Tunstall Bay and will end on Samron Rd. for us.

I’m crying a lot. Watching Fiddler on the Roof yesterday, on TV did not help. I know all the words to all the songs, and, when the song – Anatevka came on… well, the flood gates opened.
As we leave…. you can hear me singing.
A little bit of this, a little bit of that.
A pot, a pan, a broom, a hat.
Someone should have set a match to this place years ago.
A bench, a tree.
So, what’s a stove?
Or a house?
People who pass through Anatevka don’t even know they’ve been here.
A stick of wood. A piece of cloth.
What do we leave?
Nothing much.
 Only Anatevka.
Anatevka, Anatevka.
Underfed, overworked Anatevka.
Where else could Sabbath be so sweet?
Anatevka, Anatevka.
Intimate, obstinate Anatevka,
Where I know everyone I meet.
Soon I’ll be a stranger in a strange new place,
Searching for an old familiar face
From Anatevka.
I belong in Anatevka,
Tumble-down, work-a-day Anatevka.
Dear little village, little town of mine…..

Dear Bowen Island, dear little village, little town of mine. Salute.

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