By Beauty Damned

Happy Home

When I was nine years old, my parents moved us all into our new (old) house on Fifth and Idaho in sunny Santa Monica, California. Great house, amazing lot, needed a lot of work. Yard was a downright catastrophe. Crazy brambles everywhere and so many leaves and branches and crrrrap lying around that you couldn't even see all the rats that were living out there. With the help of their friend Sieji, my parents cleaned every last twig out of that back yard. It took at least three trips for the dumptruck, filled bottom to the brim.

Then came the vegetable garden, and the flower garden, and the grass, and the above ground swimming pool. That was one of the greatest times of my life. I loved watching that yard be transformed from something hideous and sad - a nasty little hell realm of its own - into what was to me a beautiful, sparkling oasis encompassed by a heavenly garden. I loved swimming in that pool with my little sister. We did somersaults and handstands and played tea-party and bumper-butts beneath the four foot deep waters of our swimming pool. We tossed handfuls of water up in the air and cheered as the droplets rained back down upon us, pretending they were diamonds, because they sparkled just like diamonds in the sun.

On sunny, lazy weekends, my mom would garden or lay on a blanket with a book and my dad would do the same, or he might get his flute and walk around in little circles while filling the air with glorious, crystal clear notes that sounded just like the smooth, shiny silver from which they came. I associate a lot of music with that house. So many weekend mornings being awakened from a peaceful sleep by the Ramones or the Circle Jerks or Cat Stevens or Icehouse or Red Lorry Yellow Lorry or Tex & the Horseheads or Trio...blasting from my dad's record player...feeling energized and hopping out of bed to go and see what dad was up to, what we were going to do with our day...I loved being woken up by that music. I loved the weekends. To this day, nothing compares with getting up on the weekend and putting on a favorite cd nice and loud to get you moving. It seemed like our house on Fifth St. was always filled with music. I learned to play guitar while living in that house. And if it wasn't my dad's flute, or his records, or my clumsy strumming, it was the beating of Tibetan drums and the ringing of bells, the sounding of horns and the humming that accompanied the twist of a dorje. My parents provided the setting for many a vibrant dharma event.

There was a huge tree the size of two houses in the lot right next to ours. A big old pine, I guess. The branches at the bottom were as big around as a crocodile's torso, rough and dark and older than anything. We were always warned not to go inside that tree, but we couldn't resist. Racoons and possums galore lived in there, but we never saw any during the daylight, so we would venture between the curtain of branches that fanned out all around (taking up the whole lot) and we would roost in the huge fort that lay completely hidden at the foot of the tree. The same woman who owned our house owned that tree, and another house which sat behind the tree. She was offered millions for that property and obstinately refused to give it up. Her father had built those houses and she'd lived in ours most of her life, so there was no way she was letting any of it go. I still admire that about her. It aggravated investors to no end that this old spinster wouldn't give up that massive lot and allow that ancient tree to be cut down so they could build their condos there. (This was two blocks from Montana Ave. and five blocks walking distance from the beach in Santa Monica, so it was prime real estate). Last time I went back to visit, a few years ago, the houses and that magnificent tree were still there. I can't imagine that old woman is still alive, but you never know, and she may have left it to a historical society or in some kind of trust...

It was a sad day when we moved from that house. We lived there for five years. Longer than any other house or apartment we'd occupied in Los Angeles. Finding out we were moving to Ashland, Oregon came as a huge shock to me when I was fourteen years old. My brother and I were both teenagers, so it was tough to move to a new town and start over. I'm glad it all happened that way though. If I'd never moved to Ashland, I wouldn't have the amazing friends that I have and the great memories of teenage years full of the freedom that only expansive outdoors can provide. I never could have had that life in Los Angeles. Sad as it was to leave our house on Fifth Street behind, I guess it was one of the best things our parents ever did for us.

This entry was inspired by this picture of Darcie's yard at her brand new house that she just purchased. I'm so happy for her that she has a beautiful yard where she can invest her energy cultivating her surroundings, as she's so fond of doing. I still can't believe she owns a house. I gotta get back to Oregon for a visit...