No Longer Ours

Our apartment is quickly beginning to feel as though it is no longer ours.  I'm trying not to be sad as I know we are going to another place we love and will make ours, but it tugs at my heart nonetheless.  In my mind, there are three definitive things that transform "an address" into "our home".... books, cooking, and art. 

The boxes and boxes of books were packed first.  For a few days I tried to keep some cookbooks and design books unpacked or in boxes that hadn't been sealed, but quickly realized I was just delaying the inevitable and took the tape gun to them as I had to all the others.  They are now simply labeled by room as "Books (K)" or "Books (D)".

No longer my kitchen

There had to be a line of demarcation between our life in L.A. and our new life in Maine.  For me, that revolved around my kitchen.  I knew I had to pack up most everything not deemed absolutely necessary prior to our trip in May.  It really didn't come down to the fact I have too many sets of china and kitchen goods and needed more time, but rather because I didn't want to see the things that had created and been the backdrop for so many memories.  It was, and possibly always will be, my dream kitchen (see the "In the Kitchen" page for a tour), but now it's time to for me step away from the stove.

Saturday the art came down.  It was the final action that transported the apartment back to looking more as it did when we first walked through it over two years ago.  Strange how painted bits of canvas....Dan's, mine, and others....can define a space so completely.  Other than "Paul's Liquor", which is so large it will remain on the wall until the very end, everything else has been packed safely in boxes within boxes.
 

The management company has started showing the apartment to potential new occupants.  The first few left me cold and feeling even more sad... unable to simply get up and say "hello" when they came in.  I quickly realized I wanted someone to move in who loved it and saw all the wonder in it we did.  The wood burning fireplace.  The vintage tile in the bathroom.  The exquisite crown mold- ing.  The warm wooden floors.  The sublime light that streams in through the front windows.  And, of course, the kitchen and my beloved stove, "Georgia".  My first sign of hope was a young woman who trains dogs.  She loved our antiques and all the details that caught our eye.  And then there was a lovely woman who came through Sunday afternoon who had lived in New York.  I found myself bounding out of my chair telling them about the kitchen, extolling the wonders of the stove, showing them all the unique nooks and crannies for storage,  yammering on about our dear neighbors across the way and their adorable dog. 

The living room bathed in beautiful light

I know this desire for the apartment to go to someone who loves it as much as we do is silly, but the thought of someone bringing in a microwave and never discovering the amazing firepower of "Georgia" makes my head spin.  To not curl up with a book in front of a roaring fire on one of those rare cold, rainy L.A. nights is beyond comprehen- sion.  In some ways it feels like we've lived here forever.  I can remember sitting on the floor in the empty living room waiting for Dan and our dear friend, Chuck, to arrive with the moving van containing our possessions.  I was overcome by a sense that this was going to be a wonderful home.....and it was. 

This was one of the posts I most dreaded writing.  I will now go blow my nose, dry my tears, and resume my packing so we can get on to our new home.....a home we will also love and fill with just as many wonderful memories.

Dan's painting, "Paul's Liquor", will hang to the end