This winter’s clear skies and snowy mountain peaks remind me of my mom’s old kitchen window.
The window, like the house itself, was the definition of ordinary. An ordinary double hung sash above the kitchen sink in an ordinary small ranch style house on a street of other ordinary small ranch style houses.
But, on a clear day, my mom’s ordinary kitchen window became extraordinary. And, on clear days after a storm, her ordinary kitchen window framed a spectacular mountain view.
The house I grew up in had the good fortune of being the last house on a north-south street that dead-ended into acres of fields. The open fields provided more than adequate foreground for expansive vistas to the San Gabriel Mountains. The view was like the photo above, only without the buildings. My mom’s kitchen window was on the north side of the house and presided over it all.
The fields and the San Gabriel Mountains — they were just there for the taking. At least that’s how it seemed. We referred to them almost dispassionately as “The field” and “The mountains.” But, those fields and those mountains – they were ours.
The kitchen window and the mountain views were my mom’s. I remember her standing over the sink looking out her window. On a clear day, she would talk about her window and how lucky she was to have such a magnificent view.
The field belonged to the kids. Whether in or out of corn, the field was inhabited by kids from our neighborhood. There were kites, football and baseball games, forts and any of a million things kids conjure up. It was our field.
At least that’s how it seemed.
None of the kids had any right to the field. That belonged to a farmer named Homer who lived in the rock house behind us and grew alfalfa and corn. Homer (and his horse, Dot) had been there long before we arrived.
The mountain view? Well, my mom owned the kitchen window and that’s about all she could lay claim to. Who really owns a mountain view anyway?
In time, a swath of Homer’s field was acquired by the state or Caltrans or whoever takes land for freeways. A phalanx of bulldozers dug a giant trench at the north end of the field. That trench became the Pomona Freeway. The familiar southern California story followed.
Homer’s barn was demolished and Dot went away along with Homer’s old tractor. The dead-end sign in front of our house was taken down and the field graded, smoothed, watered and smoothed again. New streets were laid out with new names. Driveways and foundations were poured. Before you knew it, new houses were framed, stuccoed and sold.
All too soon, our field was gone.
And, my mom’s kitchen window, which had framed such a glorious mountain view, now looked north upon the stucco side of the house next door. Her extraordinary window was now forever ordinary.
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