Whenever I stood at the front entry of our lovely Spanish adobe home in southern California, as always, I admired the view. If the jacaranda trees were blossoming, their falling flowers created a lavender carpet along the sidewalk. Oleander trees stood sentry in a row along the driveway. Our neighbor’s bougainvillea ran riot along their entire wall. I never tired of the palm trees that would cause tourists, comically, to stand open mouthed and openly remark on as soon as they exited the airport’s gates: “wow, palm trees, wow”; so ordinary to the denizens but such a novelty to out of state visitors.
Inside, the house’s thick walls kept the place cool in summer and warm in winter, albeit summer’s temperatures were a fairly constant 74 degrees while winter temperatures fell to 69 or 70 degrees. Except, of course, during the El Ninos, when it could rain for a solid month. And then there were those pesky earthquakes that could cause a person to dramatically jump out of bed at 2 am and then the fires, simultaneously terrifying and beautiful.
I knew that I would miss southern California for so many reasons. It was impossible not to be athletic in those environs, possibly why Angelinos were thin. During the winter months it was a five hour drive to Mammoth Mountain, which provided the best skiing in the country; high mountains, long invigorating runs and, while waiting in line, the usual question to ask a stranger was “what part of LA are you from”. The mountain was our guilty secret. In summer, closer mountains and deserts provided opportunities for hikers and mountain bike races. Likewise, the coastline was readymade for summer movies: regattas galore for sailors, clean beaches for sunbathing or participating in volleyball tournaments, bicycle riding along the strand, extreme surfing, paddle boarding, or water skiing. The occasional shark or stingray provided extra interest and there were plenty of beachside cozy bars and trendy restaurants when the water activities were done for the day; a wonderful place to be young, healthy and competitive.
Since mosquitoes or humidity were unheard of, breakfast oftentimes began on the patio. Outdoor dining was an ordinary event, whether on the ground or on rooftops. Music blasted everywhere, from surf songs on the beach to the Mariachi horns downtown. The abundant outdoor arenas, such as the Hollywood Bowl and the equally famous Greek Theater, allowed ticket holders to bring their picnics to enjoy before the entertainment. Chatting it up and sometimes exchanging food portions with the neighboring ticket holder could lead to a new friendship or, at the least, an encounter with a celebrity. Who would have guessed that Anne Hathaway was a fan of Rod Stewart’s music. Celebrities were ordinary folk in LA. They were “at home” so we left them alone.
We would miss so much about this life, but southern California is a place for young people with an abundance of energy, single minded ambition, determination and driving enterprise. The hours long commute on bumper to bumper eight lane freeways were more harrowing with each passing year for us. Maybe our older age made movie-star-wanna-be waiters behave more testy when we asked one too many questions about the fusion menu or we were quite flummoxed by the half dozen languages on our local election ballots. It didn’t help that, almost daily, police sirens and screeching brakes, followed by “hands on the wall” were carried on the nearby wind. Someone wasn’t having a good day. This cacophony of noise and bad behavior was becoming too ordinary for us to endure. Like us back when, the Young Turks had arrived to make their bold mark in the big city. Now it was time for us to move over, leave town and immerse ourselves in our new world. It wasn’t “them”, it was us.
It was time to find more pastoral surroundings and, since we had a posh wedding to attend in DC, we decided to take advantage of that opportunity to visit various places along the east coast. We understood that anywhere we went in this great country, there would be various natural climate disasters waiting, whether they be tornadoes, hurricanes or blizzards. I saw it as an enormous shopping opportunity for a completely new line of outdoor clothing while my husband saw it as a favorable time to indulge in his long held desire to own a John Deere tractor-mower.
Our quest began in Maine. While we were enchanted with their historic harbors, we quickly realized that two months of summer and ten months of winter would not be to our liking. New Hampshire had its now somewhat amusing history of witches but likewise suffered through long harsh winters. Boston was just another big city and while Rhode Island and Connecticut were both lovely states, the property taxes were heart stopping, so we kept going further south. On we went, finally arriving in DC for our black tie three day wedding extravaganza. While we enjoyed the temporary, somewhat stiff elegance of the event, this town was way too buttoned up for the likes of us. We continued south. We were warming to the accents of the people in the Carolinas until, upon asking a waiter for non fat milk for my coffee and instead being served cream, then summarily told that “it won’t kill ya, honey”, I demanded that we head back north. You can take the girl out of California, etc.
Further north, we settled on Maryland. Situated an equal train distance between NYC and DC, should big city withdrawal arise, we agreed that the eastern shore would suit. Winters were more temperate than the more northern states. People were patient and courteous, and there was plenty of colorful foliage. We expressed our parameters to a local realtor and, within a year, had found our new home. We had officially traded the Pacific for the Atlantic, gazpacho for chowder, Nordstroms for L.L. Bean, celebrities for politicians, palm trees for crape myrtle, no seasons for four seasons and sushi for BBQ.
We easily established ourselves in our new home. One of the first things we noticed was the quiet. No car horns blasting, no helicopters flying overhead while barking “pull over sir”. The only sounds were birdsong. If I stood outside to listen to the quiet, on occasion, I heard the flapping of a bird’s wings as it flew overhead. This new sound of silence was heavenly.
We were surrounded by fresh air and greenery. I could look out our window and see nothing but trees, bushes, lawn and sunshine dancing on the cove’s waters. Not a slab of concrete in sight. I learned the names of the new flora, never before having seen, or heard, of St. Johns Wort bushes. I learned when to plant tulip bulbs and why azaleas didn’t bloom at the same time as hibiscus. The great outdoors were a complete mystery, soon to be unlocked with long conversations at the local plant nursery.
We had fauna to contend with, which we thought was so charming for the first five minutes until I understood that those deer were eating the azaleas and tulips, unless the squirrels got to the bulbs first. We watched a murder of crows cautiously eyeing a meal of dead rabbit right until an eagle swooped in and carried it away. Who was more shocked, us or the crows, was too close to call. We gaped, they squawked. The combine harvesters sweeping up the corn fields announced the first wave of the true fall season, producing another engaging ‘close to the earth’ moment until we realized that the field mice were looking for a winter home and our attic was their first choice for their new accommodations. The favored brands of peanut butter and mouse traps became the source of earnest conversations by the pickle barrel at the local hardware store.
It was another shock to learn that immediate crises were not so immediate around here. When I discovered that the kitchen sink had backed up, the local plumber replied that he could arrive on Tuesday to “take a look” at the problem. It was Friday. In southern California I could call the plumber at 7 am who would arrive 20 minutes later, repair the problem and I wouldn’t be late for work that morning. A Zen patience was required in our new environs, not to mention a glass of wine or a stiff scotch while reviewing our assorted Do-It-Yourself manuals. We learned the meaning of “hands on”.
Life was slower, much slower. However, people were so much more kind. I could walk into the hardware store and not only would someone walk me to the product I needed but could also recommend a second approach or a better and cheaper option if there was one. In California, I would be lucky if the sales person spoke English and could point to an approximate aisle, with “maybe there”. Here, people knew what they were doing. Savvy knowledge was handed down from one generation to the next. Families had lived in the area for three or four generations, as was the case with most of the people we met. In California, meeting someone who had been born there was akin to meeting a unicorn. Everyone knew everyone, their strengths and weaknesses. We were told to see Mike for help with ‘this’ but to see George for help with ‘that’.
In California we were ordinary folk. Here, in Maryland, we were fancy outsiders. We had no roots here and were bringing no branches to leave behind. We quickly replaced our license plates. I put away all my beloved high heels that wouldn’t last for five minutes in the grass or gravel anyway. My silk dresses were replaced with corduroy pants and trench coats were replaced with barn jackets. We were very careful to be polite and accommodating, not wanting to be branded as the smug, entitled city slickers looking down their noses at the supposed country bumpkins. These people didn’t have razor cut hair styles; instead had razor cut minds, which they kept to themselves and only displayed when necessary. We wanted to belong, of course. We joined the local civic organizations, but were circumspect with our opinions, which would only make us look suspicious and untrustworthy. Instead, we learned to move slowly, donated small requested amounts and always agreed to help when asked. In turn, eventually we were looked at askance less often, the personal questions were less blunt and, occasionally, we were invited into people’s homes. Like intrepid pilgrims, 15 years ago we had arrived in our new land. We belong here now. As Kenny Loggins famously sang: “Celebrate me home”.
