Feels like home to me…

Dorothy tells us that there is no place like home. What she should have said was there is no place like homes. And yes I know that that doesn’t make any sense, but it does to me. I have three homes. My parents’ house in Georgia, Southern Virginia, and my Abuelos’ house in California.

1224 Highland Rd in the beautiful Santa Ynez Valley is my happy place. When I was a little child I would wake up from a horrible nightmare and cry for my mother. She would calm me down by telling me to imagine my favorite place: Grandpa and Grandma’s house. I love the way it smells. (Mostly of tea rose, mate, and crafts. And yes, crafts have a distinct smell.) I love the way I feel when I am there, and most importantly, I love my Abuelos!

The anticipation from the airport increases by the hour as you drive up the coast with the window open smelling the salty ocean air. And by the time you reach Santa Barbara you think that you are about to burst out of your skin. (Maybe because you need to go to the bathroom.) But all of the driving and flying are worth it when you turn the corner and finally see your happy-go-pukey, and Abuelos waiting to give you a big hug and a kiss.

But alas, my time there is never long enough and I soon have to fly back across the country, but never empty handed. I always depart their house with a suitcase of full of plant cuttings, cloth from the dollar-a-yard store, and new craft projects I accomplished with my Grandma. As I leave I take an inventory of the trip:

Eating: check.
(Grandpa’s buckwheat pancakes with freezer jam, coach’s steel-cut oats, and challenging everyone to a taco eating contest.)

Cuddling with Grandma: check.

Never wanting to leave: double check.

Lily