Sweet Home Feeling

There are a few houses that I clean that give me that sweet home feeling. I like to be there. I like what's around me. I feel rejuvenated with ideas and creative yearning by the time I leave. I forget the fact that these houses are usually very cluttered. I like the clutter in these places.

Gilda Crafts owns one of these "sweet" homes. Built in the early 30's as a summer home for a dentist, this place "rocks". Literally. This California Expanded Bungalo is made from a massive quantities of large grey quarry rocks. When the local resevoir was being excavated and expanded; this dentist traded dental work for the wonderful stone work done by Italian laborers. The result is a stone craftsman cottage bungalo to die for with a floor to ceiling walk -in fireplace in the living room.

To make things all the more sweeet. Gilda and her daughter Bess are artists. Bess is a painter. Gilda is a crafter, silversmith, quilter, bead-er (is that what they're called?). The house walls are lined with Bess's provocative and bold floral paintings and abstracts. The windows glitter with Gilda's stained glass pieces. The furniture is draped with hand-made quilts the colors of sherbert. The house is a dream for me to clean.

I dust around projects in the making, craving the time I can get home and try the same. Gilda's creations make me giddy with ideas. I imagine spending hours creating decoupage boxes, collages, quilted and beaded purses, wall hangings made from ribbon and buttons and lace. It's funny, though, because when I get home..the reality of a house that's mine sets in. I temporarily loose the giddy, and gain the overdrive needed to pick up my own life.

In the summer, Gilda's garden is my fantasy hobby. I see her reveling in her herbs and vegetables, pulling a weed here and there, cultivating a bit of soil. I dream of spiffing up my own garden. Me with my wide brimmed sun hat, my shimmering pruning shears, my rustic basket overflowing with a harvest of tomatoes and peppers. I am usually uprooted into reality when I pull in my yard and peek over the hedge. The tall,angry weeds say hello.

In the fall, the kitchen counters are lined with breads, bars, and cookies. Jars of pesto and tomatoes are perched on the window sill. Herbs hang upside down to dry. I dream of baking, with a floral apron, and my hair piled high held tight with a clasp and a streak of flour on my cheek. The aroma fills my kitchen and people enter smiling and eager to taste. I think of this dream sometimes, as I open the microwave to defrost a quick dinner for my hurried teens. It hurts.

At least Gilda's home gives me something to store in my mind...the revolving "to do one day" list, that hardly ever gets checked off. I want to be Betty Crocker, Martha Stewart, and Rachel Ray! I want to be smiling and floating and creating. I don't want harsh words to set me back, or demands for laundry or dog walks to cut into my fantasy.

I dream of a day that my house is the little , clean, organized, fragrant, plush, and sweet, sweet home that lives in my alter universe.