Home Sweet Home

Here I sit in the warm company of our miniature Daschund, entranced by the sound of gentle piano keys. The tune is familiar and enchanting. I get up to check what's on the iTunes playing now list. It's Bill Evans' Peace by Piece. What beautiful music. Classic. The sound of rain dancing on the rooftop gives another dimension to this mood, this tranquil repose I'm so comforted by in our living room. We lowered the lights hours ago. No good comes of harsh lighting, which isn't necessarily the same as bright.

My netbook has edged out our lap dog, who is nestled on my left side, for top billing. She's shivering slightly. I feel a bit of chill in the air, too.

The shades are drawn closed. My husband is downstairs working on something. He mentioned floating a desk. I'm not sure what he's up to exactly. I could move Millie and I downstairs to give him company. Yes, Millie is our dog's name. Yet I'm content, and if there's a chill in the air up here, it's certain to be cold in our basement rec room. That and I don't really feel like disrupting these moments I'm selfishly enjoying. You know, the ones where you can just allow yourself to be, to savor a melodic-

Suddenly I hear heavy footsteps on the stairs behind me. Clunk, clunk, clunk, clunk. It's definitely a he, and he must be wearing shoes upon the hardwood steps. Of course it's my husband Terry. I ask him what he's doing. He says he's installing Windows 8 and asks what did I think he would be doing. I replied that I could have sworn I heard him say something about floating a desk. In my head I envisioned he was going to somehow wall mount his existing desktop, maybe with brackets, so that it looked like it was suspended in air. I have no idea why I thought that and without questioning why he would do such a thing. His desk area downstairs is a temporary one.

Where was I? Oh, yes, I was enjoying my contentment on our cushy sofa with our sweet, little dog in our beautiful living room, listening to some gentle jazz while also hearing the rain drizzle down outside. This is home. It's that feeling of comfort, security. It's being capable of allowing one's self to be entranced, or at the very least enchanted, by classic, soothing melodies. It's the type of piano jazz one might expect to hear at a very posh soiree toward the end of the evening. Cheeks aglow, eyes sparkle with imbibement. Seeing a dapper, well dressed couple dance slowly in a loving embrace. The sense of deserving those exalted moments of tender bliss. The whiff of sweet smoke or a floral fragrance you haven't enjoyed since you were a young child.

This morning I was at our bathroom vanity and I caught a faint hint of fragrance that smelled like Halston. Suddenly I was transported to my grandparents' lavish master en suite bath. I see many beautiful, designer bottles of women's perfumes and lotions. While these fine embellishments certainly enhanced my grandma's beauty, she had her own divine radiance. Her playfulness, her affection, her joy in being alive, her love.

I started calling her Ma Ma Bell when I was about three or four years old. When driving from the airport to my grandma and grandpa's Mission Viejo home, I knew we were close when I saw the streetlamps shaped like mission bells. This made it real for me, we were really going to see two of my favorite people on earth and we were just moments apart instead of an entire continent.

When we'd get there, they would beam at us. Without fail one of them would scoop me up in their arms. Grandma would hold me and grandpa would give me an "embrasso." Something about their presence, their unrelenting loving presence. I miss them and when I think about those moments I'm still with them, they're still with me.

Now that I'm older, I believe I intended to nickname my grandma Mama Belle. For one, she was a mother to me in so many ways. Belle means beautiful. I cannot think of another way to describe her. She mostly had a happiness about her, a way of radiating joy.

Some of my favorite moments were around bedtime. I would get into my cozy pajamas. When I would come back out to the living room dressed for bed, they would gleefully admire how cute I looked. Even then as is true now I was bashful, modest. Then either my grandma, or my grandpa, or both of them would take me by the hand and sing "hippity hop to the barbershop" with delight while we skipped down the hall to my bed. It seemed like an old fashioned rhyme to me, one which I rather enjoyed. I could see the striped barber pole rotating, envision timeless clothing and how colorfully sweet the sticks of candy appeared at the end of the song. It was always our thing. Out of their six other grand children, I only ever remember them doing this with me.

When my grandma became much less mobile in her eighties and nineties, I would occasionally walk her to bed, her arm in mine. And I would still insist on us singing "hippity hop ..." Even though my insistence of this ritual was mostly to evoke laughter, it was still symbolic of our special bond.

Tonight I slowed down time, creating space for pause and reflection. I understand how very fortunate I am to have had some special people in my life. I am grateful they have touched my spirit in such a beautiful way. So many wonderful moments. I wish they could be bottled. Now they are just fleeting glimpses of a time when my nights were full of dreams and my days full of dreams come true. There is no greater gift than that of another's adoring, unconditional love.