Ah, I love this so much! We have lived in our home now for twelve years, and I am someone who has always been very freaked out by the idea of home ownership. When we moved in there was a tiny charmingly deteriorating brick patio, and after many incidents of my toddlers and I tripping and falling we reluctantly made the call to pull out the bricks. My partner and I became so attached to these bricks, their color and texture, stamped dates from a hundred years ago and seemingly random initials, we have them stacked now in a rough formation on the side of the patio as somewhat of an altar to the house. I often think about, as you described, who may have laid those bricks and how they just feel like an essential part of the house, even though that patio was likely set long after the house was built. It’s a tangible connection to place, one I feel lucky to have.
This is a beautiful piece, MaryBeth. I enjoyed being read to, thank you. It truly was a prayer & dedication your every word. Makes me want to "live" in my home differently. 🙏🏽😘🥰♥️
This was so incredibly rich and meant to hear and to read. I feel like your words took me on a journey and I could really feel the energetic threads. Beautiful!!
My maternal grandparents were first gen Americans, born to parents who left Sicily and came to the United States in the late 1800's. I wish I knew why they left their home country, but I don't, and I don't know that there's anyone still alive who knows the story ... Anyway, your story of connecting with the brick makers and brick layers who built the home you're now hit a chord with me, as my maternal grandfather was a carpenter in Los Angeles, since probably the 1930's (again, family history I don't know; I know that my grandparents were married in NYC in the 1920's, and I know that my uncle and my mother were both born in Los Angeles in the late 1930's ...) Anyway, my grandfather worked on many many homes in the Los Angeles area, and I remember as a child hearing about some of the grand homes in the Malibu area that he worked on. When the Pacific Palisades fire ripped through that area of Los Angeles, I suspect that work that my grandfather did with his hands was destroyed; I'm also sure that other work of his was destroyed by the countless fires that have happened in that area of California over the decades, and other work of his was probably destroyed as the result of remodeling done by the homeowners over the decades as well. I can't say that I ever was taken to any of the homes he'd worked on, when I was a child, and I really wish that I had. I do have a huge, beautiful, love-filled piece of his work and artistry: a hope chest that I asked him to build for me over 50 years ago, a piece of furniture that was intended to also serve as a coffee table in the apartment that my boyfriend (now husband) and I moved into a year after we graduated high school, to replace our makeshift cinder-block-and-plank coffee table. Well, after my grandfather built my hope chest, he and my grandmother drove it in his van from Los Angeles to where I lived in the SF Bay Area, and what emerged from his van was something much bigger than I expected: it measures 30" high, 24" deep and 50" wide! I remember him telling me that the measurements I'd given him was just too small ... I love thinking that my grandfather believed I needed a bigger chest in which to hold all my hopes ... it's one of my most prized possessions. I am grateful that I have this treasure that he made with his hands; I am mourning all of his work that has been lost over time to wildfires and human choices.
I read it but yes to being read to. I loved this piece. I come from a family of brick layers. I love imagining those bricks talking to you.
OMG you are bricklaying folk!!! Bless bless you. Love you.
Your talking voice brings your written voice wings and songs. Thank you for this beautiful gift ✨
Thank you!!!!!
Ah, I love this so much! We have lived in our home now for twelve years, and I am someone who has always been very freaked out by the idea of home ownership. When we moved in there was a tiny charmingly deteriorating brick patio, and after many incidents of my toddlers and I tripping and falling we reluctantly made the call to pull out the bricks. My partner and I became so attached to these bricks, their color and texture, stamped dates from a hundred years ago and seemingly random initials, we have them stacked now in a rough formation on the side of the patio as somewhat of an altar to the house. I often think about, as you described, who may have laid those bricks and how they just feel like an essential part of the house, even though that patio was likely set long after the house was built. It’s a tangible connection to place, one I feel lucky to have.
This is a beautiful piece, MaryBeth. I enjoyed being read to, thank you. It truly was a prayer & dedication your every word. Makes me want to "live" in my home differently. 🙏🏽😘🥰♥️
Ahhh thank you so so much!!!
That is really beautiful — to give them a new life and a new view!
This was so incredibly rich and meant to hear and to read. I feel like your words took me on a journey and I could really feel the energetic threads. Beautiful!!
meaningful... not meant. ❤️
Thank you so so much Shauna! I am sending you a lot of love.
Sister. This piece sang to my soul 😭
beautiful <3 thank you <3
My maternal grandparents were first gen Americans, born to parents who left Sicily and came to the United States in the late 1800's. I wish I knew why they left their home country, but I don't, and I don't know that there's anyone still alive who knows the story ... Anyway, your story of connecting with the brick makers and brick layers who built the home you're now hit a chord with me, as my maternal grandfather was a carpenter in Los Angeles, since probably the 1930's (again, family history I don't know; I know that my grandparents were married in NYC in the 1920's, and I know that my uncle and my mother were both born in Los Angeles in the late 1930's ...) Anyway, my grandfather worked on many many homes in the Los Angeles area, and I remember as a child hearing about some of the grand homes in the Malibu area that he worked on. When the Pacific Palisades fire ripped through that area of Los Angeles, I suspect that work that my grandfather did with his hands was destroyed; I'm also sure that other work of his was destroyed by the countless fires that have happened in that area of California over the decades, and other work of his was probably destroyed as the result of remodeling done by the homeowners over the decades as well. I can't say that I ever was taken to any of the homes he'd worked on, when I was a child, and I really wish that I had. I do have a huge, beautiful, love-filled piece of his work and artistry: a hope chest that I asked him to build for me over 50 years ago, a piece of furniture that was intended to also serve as a coffee table in the apartment that my boyfriend (now husband) and I moved into a year after we graduated high school, to replace our makeshift cinder-block-and-plank coffee table. Well, after my grandfather built my hope chest, he and my grandmother drove it in his van from Los Angeles to where I lived in the SF Bay Area, and what emerged from his van was something much bigger than I expected: it measures 30" high, 24" deep and 50" wide! I remember him telling me that the measurements I'd given him was just too small ... I love thinking that my grandfather believed I needed a bigger chest in which to hold all my hopes ... it's one of my most prized possessions. I am grateful that I have this treasure that he made with his hands; I am mourning all of his work that has been lost over time to wildfires and human choices.