Shannon went down to Albemarle Street, where he lived, it was a big two story house, with five bedrooms, it never really mattered to Shannon's old lady, his wife, but it did to him.
"Shannon," his old lady would say to him when they first met, and started drinking, "any place will do. All I really want is a warm fireplace to keep the cold out, and tight windows to keep the heat in, with heavy window weights."
Shannon never did take that statement seriously. Now as he walked down the street in the wee hours of the morning, through the mist and fog, and saw car lights reaching only several feet in front of him, he got a glimpse of the chimney of his home, he felt glad that he had not taken her seriously. It was better he was coming home to a big house, nice and warm, than a little one, he had lots of room to pace back and forth in. He, Shannon was not the sort of fellow who liked a garage for a house.
He opened the screened in door, walked onto the porch, and then the wooden door, and on into the hallway, and to the third door, that led into his living room. He tried to remember that that fellow he met in West Fargo had written, that poet guy, he used to recite it: "There are many paths that lead to Rome, somewhat and somewhat and something more-there's no place like home." He could not remember the exact words, but he taught Cantina to sing, "Home sweet home," that was when she was six-years old. He told his little daughter back then, he could be a song writer, and then laughed, saying "If they can sell that Elvis stuff, why not mine!" If he had had a chance to do such a thing, he might have. Anyhow, he would tickle Cantina until she'd sing it with him, and he figured, this evening maybe he could talk her into singing it with him again, if she didn't go right home to his brother's house, she often stopped to visit him before she did.
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