The First and Only Online Fanzine Devoted to the Life and Works of Edgar Rice Burroughs

My father was born in a house in Massachusetts that was built in 1741. His father owned it. My father never owned a home of his own. He lived for forty years in the same rented house in Chicago, although he was a wealthy man and could easily have afforded to own a home.

I was born in that rented house. It was home to me in the real sense of the word, because my father and mother made it a home; but it lacked something - it could not impart pride in ownership nor a sense of permanency. One result was an ambition to own my own house.

I have lived in several houses in several cities. Two of them, in Illinois, I owned, and two in Southern California. But I have never lived long enough in one place to acquire a solid sense of permanency, which has always appeared to me to connote security. And home and security seem almost synonomous (sic), for home is sanctuary.

Yet my homes were real homes in every respect other than permanency. They had comfortable furniture, selected because it was what we wanted and not because it represented any period, nor because some interior decorator told us to get it. It represented us. Perhaps a lot of it didn't harmonize, but at least our home did not look like the show window of a furniture store.

Our home had children, and dogs, and white rats, and horses. It had books, and easy chairs in which to read them. Our friends and our children's friends were welcome there.

And so, to me, home is where the children are and love and companionship and dogs and security and horses and ownership and white rats and books and permanence.

Edgar Rice Burroughs
Tarzana, California

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550 A Avenue, Coronado, California

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Camp Disaster
Automobile Camping Tour from Oak Park to California

355 South Hoover St. ~ Los Angeles

700 Linden Ave. ~ Oak Park

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"The Doring House"
325 North Oak Park Ave. ~ Oak Park
1918-1919

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