I am sitting in a coffee shop on the Plaza enjoying a delicious brew in a corner booth overlooking the frost covered buildings and the vast sky that promises warmer weather today.
I read a study that compared the frequencies of people and places and how we thrive best when matched with our own similar frequency level regarding people and lands. According to the study, if you were to close your eyes and someone placed a stone from a place that you love in one hand and a stone from a place you do not like, you would notice the difference. This place matches my frequency. Whether crossing the Santa Fe Plaza or eating red chile in Socorro or driving though farm land or artist towns, this is my place. One day…
I adore the architecture and the history here. The traditional adobe with straw sticking through its ancient walls. The oldest house in the United States is here and was built in 1598. Down a small street next to San Miguel church (circa 1636) is the house and free museum. I loved seeing the tortilla press (not too different than mine) and the stone used for grinding corn into meal (a bit different than my Vitamix) and the other items of the era.
There is a distinctive look to New Mexico. It is all about the details here. Punched tin, kivas, adobe, bright trim, murals, and vigas create textures, history, and art in the architecture and design here.
We brought our granddaughter’s stuffed animal with us and have been capturing moments with it to the delight of Maryjane.
Now I have seen the fake stuffed animal heads mounted on boards. They are cheeky and kind of funny from a vegetarian perspective. In fact, I have long had a stuffed moose head we named Moosletoe hanging in our living room. One is funny; more than that might be over the top. However, when I saw this rooster head I started giggling so much that the cashier started giggling, than Doug joined in, and the contagious laughter prompted his coming home with me. He is hilarious. Perhaps he will inspire my rooster, Bob, to behave himself.
Amazing how ten days flies when on vacation. Thanks for coming along with me, we’ll see you back at the farm!
It is just an ordinary old building from the outside. It was a feed store and a liquor store among other things. Its basement is flooded and water rushes around the old, old boiler standing proudly, its ankles wading in the rainwater misplaced. The large main floor is open with high ceilings, windows, wood floors, and my eyes gaze around in wonder as if I were designing a loft for a popular television show. The upstairs is a rounded loft that would make a lovely bedroom. The back room is really the gem. A rustic blank slate of old brick and cement, a kitchen it must be. I dream as the owner shows me around. Lord, I could decorate anything. Unfortunately we have to rent a year before we can buy and she could not afford to allow us that being too far behind. The bank will likely have this unspoken masterpiece, unappreciated in its barrenness but too expensive in its needs. I wished her luck. I could have had supper clubs there and art openings and karaoke nights! But alas, it is not for us though if could buy we could get it for a song. I could even turn the outside strip into a garden oasis with chickens.
So, Doug and I decided to head out to the building that holds the company that he is interviewing with tomorrow. We are confident and hopeful. We backtracked from the building to various neighborhoods, many with pristine grass and home owner’s associations written all over them as well as mighty confident price tags. Because his work, should he get the job, is on the far north side of Colorado Springs we would be a mere ten minutes from the first bit of country. A life Doug would like to hold onto. Truth be told, so do I. We still want the large gardens and chickens. The views, the stars, the quiet, that life.
We drove past the trees that were scarred by the fire I wrote about a few years ago. The area is regrowing and beautiful. To live in the trees would be magical even though the fire risk is always a possibility. A few minutes further we get into the prairielands we know and adore.
Oh where will our new home be? And can it be somewhere we can stay? To put down roots and apple trees without fear of being forced to move? Can we find someone to help us get the house then buy it from them? Or a place that we can rent then purchase later? A place that we can call our own? Dreaming of home is a bittersweet ordeal when you know not where home is.
Home is by a hearth and fire, surrounded by our cats, and visited by our beloved ones. It is where we find each other at the end of the day and at early dawn. Where the rooster will crow and the pumpkins will grow. We are searching.