| A Once And Living Room | |
| My grandmother Nery's house on Ocean View Boulevard, in San Diego, California, was a little white wood-framed house with dark brown trim that was built in the late nineteen-twenties. ����� And it stood, just as my mother had known it as a little girl, nestled among a mass of thick begonia plants and surrounded by tall eucalyptus trees. � A small pond sat almost unnoticeable amidst the stiff, overgrown, begonias off to the left side of the house. � And a driveway which led to a separate, and small, carport on the right. ����� On the porch, above the dark frame of the door and just left of the big front windows, the address 3326 hung in brown iron numbers that were nailed to the white painted wood. � The front door had three pairs of square glass windows set inside its solid brown wood, with a rusty-colored mail slot added above the bottom pair of windows. ����� Stepping inside was like walking into a cottage. � A large, thickly woven, oval rug lay in the center of the cold pine floor of the living room. � Upon which sat a long doilied table with a bench on either side. � The bust of a young oriental woman adorned the table's center. ����� A small bamboo bookcase stood by the door, with books of all types: Gore Vidal, Mark Twain, Agatha Christie, Truman Capote, were all but some, whom were here to greet those who entered. � Above its lacquered finish, hung a small picture; a silhouetted nightscape of Rio de Janeiro, whose background was made out of butterfly wings which sparkled and glittered from behind its glass in unbelievably vibrant colors. � It would catch the faintest of stray light, setting itself aglow with such rich fluorescent colors of blue, yellow, green and red, that it would glow even in the dark. ����� A love seat sat against the front windows and a small end table stood in the corner which held a very heavy, black, old-style dial telephone. � Towards the far wall you could see into the dining room with its large mahogany table and chairs, and the credenza to the right. �There were white lace curtains and canvas pull-down shades on all of the windows. ����� There lingered in the air here, not the usual scent of the ocean, nor the pungent fragrance of the eucalyptus trees, which were so abundant and strong outside; but the lingering traces of burnt wood, which emanated from the well-used fireplace off to the far right. A bent-wood rocking chair sat invitingly in the far corner in front of the protective black-wire-mesh screen of the fireplace. ����� It was here that I spent most of my young childhood days, in the care of my grandmother, while both my parents were off at work. � Captivated by the tranquil beauty of the place. � Listening to the occasional "Snaps" and "Pops" of the logs, glowing incandescently, as they'd crumble into their soft bed of white ash. ����� It was a quiet house. � One that was disrupted only by the sounds of rain pelting stubbornly against the roof and windows like handfuls of sand blowing in the wind; or the sounds of pots and pans as my grandmother cooked in the kitchen, with the smell of chicken boiling on the old gas stove. ����� The house had its own heavy presence. � A sense of closeness that, just like a well made coat, would wrap around you and fit comfortably and snug; and yet, oddly out of place. � Perhaps it was the illusive sense that time somehow had been conquered here and stopped. � A sense that, at least for those precious moments with my grandmother, one could live forever here and deny, suspended as it seemed, that time would ultimately be the victor.  My mother, when she was a young girl, in front of the house on Ocean View Boulevard.
My grandmother Nery's house | |
|