Something Simple

I'm reminded of my step-grandparents home in Fowler, CA. That unassuming house was a sun-bleached pink, but the scraps in the collage drawer weren't agreeing with that color. The scraps did lend themselves to capturing the strange, liminal feeling of that house.

Fowler is a quiet town, a small farming community outside of Fresno, California. The people that live there come from generations of farmers that built the place up - everyone knows everyone. My step-grandparents were no strangers around town, and yet, something about that small home in that small town felt out of place. A tiny little pocket universe where only the invited — usually the plethora of aunties, uncles and cousins — could step foot onto the premises. You'd never a see another soul on that tiny little block, even though one would expect to see a neighbor or two eventually. Even stranger, the house was across the street from the only high school in town, but we never seemed to visit when class was in session.

Inside, the Japanese heritage was immediately felt, like a wood-paneled Buddhist temple with plaid couches and a huge box TV. Opening cupboards revealed treasure troves of hoarded knick-knacks and snacks. Functionally the backyard was one big cupboard - more tchotchkes covered by weeds and untended plants. All of it, tucked away behind that gaudy, sun-beat pink exterior. Always busy but distant.