Serendipity

While Mackenzie and I were taking our walk today, we passed a home with a picket fence, which brought to mind a long-ago picket fence I used to walk by while pregnant with her. And as we were walking, I told her the story of that picket fence (which was white, I think):

Back then, we rented a little 1920's bungalow in a little neighborhood in San Diego called Golden Hill, which resides at the southeast corner of Balboa park. The neighborhood to the south of us was a little sketchy, sprinkled with old unkempt Spanish-style houses, century-old cottages maintained with love, and what were once mansions, now made into pink stucco apartment buildings. To the north of us was a neighborhood aptly named South Park. It was a little wealthier, the homes a little bigger, the streets a little safer.

And every day, Dillon (who was still not in kindergarten) and Dakota (our Alaskan Malamute), and I would take a walk in South Park among the turn-of-the-century mansions overlooking the park and the stately craftsman-style homes. One of these homes was a big yellow house (it's yellow in my memory, with white trim), with a porch big enough for a table, on a corner lot, surrounded by a white picket fence. At 26 years old, I thought this was the perfect home and I would sometimes wave hi to the woman who lived there. There were children's toys strewn about the yard, sometimes a magazine or glass of tea left on the porch: others, there was evidence of recent gardening, and a dog that lived here who loved to play fetch. Every day, as we passed his house, he would greet us, and if there was a ball near enough to the fence that we could stick our arms through and grab it, he would play fetch for as many times as we would be willing to throw his ball.

Eventually, one day when we walked by, the mom was outside with her son, who was a toddler. Their dog came running up to us, and we stopped to say hello and play a little fetch. There were big yellow construction vehicles over at Balboa Park, which was close enough to see from where we stood, and the mom told me how ever since they had arrived, she had to stand outside several times a day with her son, who could never get enough of the "trucks." We talked a few times after that, but soon enough, my family and I moved up to a new, safer, less eclectic, but more school-friendly neighborhood called UTC. But I never forgot about that little yellow house, in the beautiful old neighborhood, with the little perfect family.

Five years, three apartments, one house, and one country later, we were living in Japan where I met a new friend who had also come from San Diego, and serendipitously, was the mother of Mackenzie's New Best Friend, Eliza. And one day while the girls were playing, she was telling me about her family, and her sister who happened to live in a little neighborhood on the southeast corner of Balboa Park. I could not believe the coincidence! I told her about how we used to live near there, and how I used to take a walk every day and how I loved this house with the mom and the boy and the toys and the dog and the white picket fence.

And while I sat and described the Home of My Dreams, a look of recognition came over her face. I was describing her sister's house. I had talked to her sister. We had to move all the way to Japan to reconnect with the family we never really knew, but loved anyway.