May 29, 2011
May 29th.
That was the day I first pulled onto Holly Heights. I had my girlfriend, Charity, riding shotgun. She was there for encouragement and to be the
voice of reason. That’s kind of what she
does. Anyway, we must have driven past
this street three times before we actually saw it. Then we probably drove past it another three
times before we realized that it was what we were looking for. Holly Heights is very inconspicuous. And a little intimidating. It shouldn’t be. It’s marked with a street sign, off of a
major West Sonoma County thoroughfare.
It’s not particularly hidden, but it’s not overly visible either. I guess that’s what makes the location as
dichotomous as the neighborhood itself.
Underwhelmed
So, after the sixth approach to Holly Heights, Charity and I
finally made the left hand turn onto what can only be accurately described as
an alley. There are no sidewalks. There are no painted lines. The ten houses here only line one side of the
street. The opposing side is adorned
with eight feet of redwood fencing. That
fence is less to keep the undesirables away from us, but more to shield the
residents of the elite Bodega Vista Estates, on the other side of the fence,
from the offensive, eye-sore that is Holly Heights.
As I drove up Holly Heights, my dedicated co-pilot
alongside, I told her “Look for the empty one.”
I mean, there are only ten houses.
Who knew we could pass it? But we
passed it. So we drove to the top of the
hill and turned around in the last driveway.
And by driveway, I mean flea market.
I honestly have no idea how this guy has eluded the producers of “Hoarders.” Before I even took the car out of reverse, I
looked at Charity and said “Never mind.
I’ll look somewhere else.” She
didn’t let me give up on it though. We got
out of the car in front of the vacant duplex and peered through the windows and
walked around to the back, past a gate that hadn’t had stable a relationship
with its hinges in several years.
Nope.
It’s PERFECT for
you!!!
“Actually, it’s not,” I told Charity, not amused. At all.
Then she looked at me, also unamused, and said “It’s cute. And it’s safe.” By which she meant “where the hell else are
you going to live?” Valid point. So, I called the property manager and set up
an appointment for a viewing. And with
Charity’s very poignant tone echoing in my memory, I was reminded that I was
out of options. I filled out the rental
application as quick as I could dig a pen out of my purse.
Three days later, I was signing a lease and scratching out a
check for the deposit. After all, Holly
Heights was “perfect” for me.
That was two years ago, tomorrow.
Two Years
A lot happens in two years.
Even as we get older and fight change more aggressively, two years is a
long time. And Holly Heights was an adjustment. For the first couple of months that I lived
here, I couldn’t believe that this was my home.
I felt dejected every time I turned up the hill after work. This wasn’t where I was supposed to be. I didn’t want to have people over. Who’d want to come here anyway? It was a shanty and I was living in a
shack. The first time I had a date after
I moved in, this guy walked in the front door and said “I didn’t know there was
ghetto in Petaluma.” The whole
situation was a metaphor. A metaphor for
failure. How did I end up living in a
duplex with 600 square feet of living space on a street that wasn’t even
maintained by the city? HOW??? That was two years ago.
Two Years (Did I say
that already?)
As I have said before, I am always amazed at how experience and
perspective change us. So, as I sat reveling in my own demise, something
happened. Something. Happened.
It was life. Life was
happening. My child was growing up. I was finding my own way. The grass was needing to be cut…every other
week. And as I started participating in
life, I also started participating at Holly Heights. Then, before I even realized what had
happened, two years had passed and I found something remarkable. I found a home.
People like to talk about home. It makes us feel nostalgic. It makes us feel like we have a place in the
world. It gives us purpose. Home is the foundation. So, when I found a home on Holly Heights, I
had a hard time accepting it. But I
shouldn’t have fought it so hard, because this is the most comfortable home I
have ever known.
Home is Where…
You raise your children. Home is where you aren’t
embarrassed about having too many cats. Home is where you cut the grass, even
if not enough. Home is where you cook
dinner. Sometimes you boil a pot of
water for oatmeal, sometimes you spend days prepping for a holiday meal. Home is where you give baths and kiss
boo-boos. Home is where you sit on the
stoop and engage your neighbors in conversation. Home is where you lite a fire in the back
yard and laugh too loud with your friends. Home is where you watch the tomatoes grow and
pick berries to bake pie with. Home is
where you hold the people love when they are sad. Home is the yard you sit in and have
meaningful conversation with meaningful people. Home is
the music and the wine and the laughter.
Home is always honest. There’s no
pretense at home. It’s where you walk
out the front door to find a naked child in the yard…it may be your child, it
may not be. Home is home.
And you always know when you are there.
Even if you never expected to find it.
Home is where you find your inner peas.
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