My home sits in the middle of a large prominence of land overlooking the craggy Southern California terrain. It is truly majestic looking; built in 1918, four stories tall, its victorian grandeur bespeaks old La Mesa. With views of Cowles Mountain, El Capitan, and the lighted cross atop Mount Helix the eyes stretch far into a broad cerulean sky. The backyard, which in spring is covered with wildflowers and fruiting trees, climbs the hill to the next street. This is our home, where our memories were born and our existence lies, a home like no other.
What is it exactly that makes our house a home and leaves us feeling so endeared to it? There is a circular spot on the carpet where our youngest son took the hair dryer one day and held it directly to the floor and burned it. There also lies his sweet innocence and inexorable curiosity. In the living room stands a river rock fireplace where for the first four months of our residency our family sat every night watching the flames grow from a firelog and talked because we watched no nighttime television. We learned to relate as a family there. Many a time the swing on the front porch has been used for communing with the outside world and one another, or for solitary reflection when a family member needs to re-center their inner world. It is these recollections that stand foremost in my mind when I think of my home.
We've lived in other homes--but not really: a tiny apartment with a living room the size of a closet, another whose carpeting was so dirty it blackened the bottom of our children's feet as they sprinted across the floor, a rented house in which the front room sported no windows to let the sunlight in, where pets were not allowed, and we could not even sit together for dinner as a family because there was not enough space for a dining table. It seemed we could only lead counterfeit lives in these places, ostensibly happy and secure. In fact, these abodes were temporary residences where we could keep our possessions while we looked for a real home that would one day be ours.
Then came the day that we drove by a decadent Queen Ann piled six feet deep in garbage, sagging roof, questionable foundtion, and a barren landscape; we fell in love. The entire family put forth effort into making it livable, clearing the debris, adding light fixtures where wires hung exposed from the ceiling and walls, installing a kitchen where there was once only bare floor and cabinets, adding stairways to link the different levels and connect the garage to the rest of the house, making it possible to drive right in our garage, walk up two flights of stairs, and be home instead of walking all the way around to the front door. We covered the holes in the walls and painted over the dingy plaster to create more livable surroundings. This was our habitat now, the pride of ownership being in everything we did. These shared experiences of beautifying our environment brought our family members closer to one another.
My husband and I know that we will live in this house for the rest of our lives and what a difference in our attitudes this knowledge has given us. We feel at peace now. The search for a place to be is over. We no longer exist in a state of suspension, held in abeyance for the right time to purchase that large piece of furniture or to rescue an animal from a shelter. We can make whatever changes needed to our dwelling without regards to some far-off landlord. We are the owners. We make the decisions. For us, there truly is no place like home. It is home where our memnoris grow and our hearts will stay--forever home.
Copyright: Nina Ramsy 1999
