I’m not sure when (I’m going to say the ’50s because when you say the ’50s it sounds nostalgic and magical) a crate of green parrots tipped over and escaped in my Grandma’s neighborhood. Now, I realize it probably wasn’t the ’50s – that’s a long long time for parrots to live, but seeing them fly by in a wild cluster reminded me of bygone circuses and Houdini and old love. That’s where they will remain – in some lost era, but a story that hasn’t been told yet.
This is what my Grandma’s house is to me – a last link to memories. I looked around and saw foiled chocolates from Easter egg hunts, heated board games at the dining room table, croquet in the front yard with my fisher price skates, clomping around the grass, hitting and skating at the same time, maximizing fun; I felt the sunshine, ate fruit, watched honey bees for hours; I remember the ocean and sand falling off my small body in her green bathtub, the white pebbles pooling around the drain. I love this house. And beyond me, I know the stories of my mom climbing the trees in windstorms and riding the branches, the underwear she stole from my aunt and hung on the street sign … we are all there somehow even thought we exist miles apart. This is a good home.
And of course there’s the ocean and farmer’s markets and very Los Angeles places like the Getty Villa. We tried to see the whales migrating south from Alaska, apparently it’s a record year for them, but we only happened to see thousands upon thousands of dolphin pods swimming by. How horrible, right?! If only I had a few more days off…
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