Bidding Los Olivos Farewell
I’ve been thinking a lot recently about the meaning of home. Or perhaps more accurately, what it means to truly abide in a home of your own making.
As we empty our blue-paint peeling casita of furniture, artwork, clutter and knickknacks, I’m struck by how much this now cavernous tile-floored space still feels homey. Even in its emptiness, I feel a sense of safety and comfort within the four walls that have, for these last three years, been ours.
When Freddy helped me move into this place, his skepticism for the building echoed his greater hesitation of moving out to small town, middle of nowhere California. I didn’t blame him — there wasn’t much about the shag carpeted stairs, weirdly short (and yellow, of all colors!) bathroom countertops and cracked foundation that enamored me. The price was reasonable, the location was ideal, and they were willing to let me (“us” was still a bit up in the air at that time) have a dog, so regardless of my lack of aesthetic affection, I put down a security deposit and tried to imagine that it perhaps it could become home.
We cleaned and cleaned, never quite establishing cleanliness but achieving a level of livability, repainted the awful yellow kitchen and “poop green” bathroom an unassuming blue, and furnished the space with investment-less pieces in anticipation of moving within 6-12 months. It seemed unlikely, at the time, that the space would ever be a permanent fixture in our lives. Something better and more beautiful was certainly just around the corner.
But a few months in, we’d settled into the creases of our new-old leather couch, hung artwork in frames across the walls, and learned that the empty wall we never furnished or decorated made a great backboard for wall-ball on rainy days with our recently adopted (and highly energetic) pup. Certainly the dust-bunnies beneath the couch were a demonstration of the home we’d begun to make there together.
Now, three years and multiple seasons of Freddy’s giant patio sunflowers later, we’re left with nothing much more than a mattress, some spare takeout chopsticks and our halfway packed suitcases to fill this lofty one-bedroom home. Nearly empty of earthy belongings yet so filled with memories from the last three years.
Our first home together. So many evenings tucked away on that brown leather couch, so many mornings sweeping dog hair from the corners of the floor, so many meals made, so many beverages shared, so many loved-ones welcomed, so many nights spent in rest, together.
Saying goodbye to our first home address
I don’t think I’d have believed anyone that told me we’d grow to love this space so much. Even now, looking around at those same shag carpets or out the window at our landlord-terrorized patio area (don’t even get me started on how sad I was when they ripped out all our plants to lay down DG), I’m finding myself a bit surprised by how terribly I loathe the day we’ll have to leave. I love it here, ugly counter tops and all.
It feels, more than anywhere else, like home. Safe. Ours.
But no longer. Off we go!
xo
sbmc
