My Homes

My paternal grandmother was a quilter. When she passed away we went through all of her quilts and divvy-d them up. My favorite quilt was one she had created with images she had made of every home she had lived in. The images were made of quilting fabric. It was incredibly touching.

I don't remember my first two homes. From what I've been told, the very first was an apartment about seven floors up, plain and probably very warm. I lived there just a few weeks before we moved into a rental house. That house was close to the ocean. The only story I've heard of it is the one in which my dad got a terrible sunburn sitting in my baby swimming pool playing with my baby toys long after I'd gone down for a nap.

The first home I remember is my childhood home. We lived there for all of my elementary school years. On a quiet street, just a block from the park. With my best friend just a few houses away, and Yum-Yum Donuts within walking distance. My brother and I shared a brightly colored room for a while, and later our kitchen had blue tile countertops. We played on the slip-and-slide in the front yard, and would swing on our homemade swing in the backyard for so long that I would go to bed at night and could still feel myself swinging.

My next home was a transitional rental that we lived in while we bought our next house in a new city. I had a room with a sliding glass door. Our house was nearly completely surrounded by trees but I remember the light coming into the kitchen window at sunset was so bright you could barely stand to be in the room. The smoke alarm would go off if you took a steamy shower, and I once fell down the stairs and busted up my knee bad.

From there we moved into our purchased house in the new city. It was huge. And had a pool! And the carpet in my room had to be torn up because cats had peed on it. My brother and I had rooms connected by a folding door. We got a dog and a cat. And spent hours and days in the backyard and the pool. I filled my room with typical teenage stuff like posters, mementos, and every hat I had ever come across.

From there I moved to college. A dorm room where I first got way, way too drunk and a roommate that is still a great friend. Then the sorority house with tons of drama and the biggest TV you ever did see. Interrupted briefly by a semester in Spain with a Spanish family's apartment with metal shutters on my window for siesta. Finally a rental house with some of my closest friends for our senior year. An adorable house I would gladly live in now, aside from the crazy squirrels.

With a college degree I eventually landed in San Francisco. City of my heart. A pink and purple apartment in Chinatown. My own bathroom, a room big enough for a bed and not much else, and a closet in the hallway. A year of coming into my own. Then a move over the hill to a Victorian with a room I painted yellow. And a place that felt like home, even with the red carpet, crazy neighbors, and occasional roommate drama. Some of my closest friends were just blocks away - we would meet on the corner. The dry cleaner and manicurist knew my name. I had a routine and was more content than I have been anywhere else.

And from there to where I am now. A shoebox apartment with the man who is now my husband. A rooftop deck for kick-ass parties, and views to make you smile. Everything we have is used or cheap and we're okay with that for now because we dream of our future home...