Our first home as a married couple was a blue house on 30th Street near downtown Los Angeles lovingly referred to as The Blue House.
It was a 100-year old Craftsman style home owned by the grandmotherly Mrs. Vasquez, who pronounced our names “Esteb” and “Lo-rizza.” She kept our rent low because we paid her on time and didn’t trash her house like previous college-age renters.
The house's carpet was what could best be described as “puke teal,” and everything was constantly dusty because half the windows didn’t close properly. Soon after moving in, we painted the walls to add a bit of character. Tangerine orange for the kitchen, sage green for the living room.
Our neighbors were mostly college students, including a group of frat boys next door who owned a huge, mangy black chicken named Mephistopheles, who used our front yard as his personal litter box. There was also Mr. Lee, a tiny Korean man, who sat around scratching used lottery tickets, and his pal Kevin, who was rarely sober. Mr. Lee and Kevin loitered near our front lawn, and often welcomed us when we came home.
The house was small, but spacious enough for us to host poker nights and Halloween parties. We once hosted my family’s Thanksgiving dinner in our home, packing in more aunts and uncles and cousins than could comfortably fit. Despite having to frantically thaw a 25-pound turkey in our bathtub the night before, the Thanksgiving meal somehow came together.
When our son Aaron was born, we transformed the small guest room into a baby nursery. With no insulation in the walls, every sound carried through the house, and we were known to shush house guests so they wouldn’t wake the sleeping baby. Many college students adopted Aaron into their fold, and we had a steady stream of babysitters whenever the need arose .
After about 5 years, we outgrew the house, and were able to purchase a home half a mile away. On the day we moved, we said a loving goodbye to our first home and all the memories held inside.
It was a 100-year old Craftsman style home owned by the grandmotherly Mrs. Vasquez, who pronounced our names “Esteb” and “Lo-rizza.” She kept our rent low because we paid her on time and didn’t trash her house like previous college-age renters.
The house's carpet was what could best be described as “puke teal,” and everything was constantly dusty because half the windows didn’t close properly. Soon after moving in, we painted the walls to add a bit of character. Tangerine orange for the kitchen, sage green for the living room.
Our neighbors were mostly college students, including a group of frat boys next door who owned a huge, mangy black chicken named Mephistopheles, who used our front yard as his personal litter box. There was also Mr. Lee, a tiny Korean man, who sat around scratching used lottery tickets, and his pal Kevin, who was rarely sober. Mr. Lee and Kevin loitered near our front lawn, and often welcomed us when we came home.
The house was small, but spacious enough for us to host poker nights and Halloween parties. We once hosted my family’s Thanksgiving dinner in our home, packing in more aunts and uncles and cousins than could comfortably fit. Despite having to frantically thaw a 25-pound turkey in our bathtub the night before, the Thanksgiving meal somehow came together.
When our son Aaron was born, we transformed the small guest room into a baby nursery. With no insulation in the walls, every sound carried through the house, and we were known to shush house guests so they wouldn’t wake the sleeping baby. Many college students adopted Aaron into their fold, and we had a steady stream of babysitters whenever the need arose .
After about 5 years, we outgrew the house, and were able to purchase a home half a mile away. On the day we moved, we said a loving goodbye to our first home and all the memories held inside.
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