A neighbor I don’t really know just stopped by to give us some avocados from her tree. Isn’t that lovely? She went nuts over our house. I guess where she’s from (Bakersfield? Nebraska? She told me once, years ago, but all I remember is that it was a farm) people don’t live the way we do.
“Your home is about celebration and color, I love it!” She said, endearing herself to me for all eternity. She’d seen the red living room from the street, but she had no idea that the kitchen is goldenrod yellow, the dining room is two shades of pumpkin orange, my office is royal blue and there’s a tiny purple hallway leading to the fuchsia bedroom.
The books piled everywhere surprised and charmed her. I guess I expect every home to have bursting stacks in the corners. Our odds and ends, culled from Robert’s early life in Singapore and Indonesia as well as my parents’ global travels (Moroccan camel saddle, anyone?) fascinated her. I even showed her my personalized autographed photo of Barnabas Collins, I mean Jonathan Frid. She oohed over things I’ve forgotten I see every day. Telling the stories reminded me why I kept them.
Sometimes it can be a happy thing to see our lives through other eyes. I love our little home, but now I want to give it a cookie.
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