martha stewart doesn't live here anymore

It was not my sort of place at all.

It was a balmy evening in May in 2002 when we pulled into the tiny hamlet of Mariposa, California (population 1,380) located just outside our ultimate destination, Yosemite National Park. Weary from pounding the road and short with each other, we drove around in search of a room, a drink and a meal, very much in that order. Averse to chain motels but unwilling to share a bathroom in the name of historical authenticity, we settled on a festively pink and white Victorian-looking inn, which beckoned with the promise of whimsy, historical relevance and, most importantly, en suite baths. Unfortunately, the rooms themselves were located not in the main house but in a contemporary annex just off the front porch. By annex, I mean a low motel-like structure, and by contemporary, I mean circa 1969.

Funky motel, and I do mean that in a bad way, just off 152, I huffed, writing in full-blown princess mode in my travel journal late that night. The Burgundy Room ~ all shag carpeting and veneer, reeks of old smoke and disinfectant. I don't know how I'll ever get to sleep....

At which point I promptly fell asleep, as evidenced by the pen mark weaving it's way drunkenly to the bottom of, and eventually off, the page. So much for my delicate sensibilities.

The next morning, over fresh fruit, homemade chocolate cake and coffee served by the owner's husband, we met the lady of the house herself. Tall and elegant, she was glamorously, but tastefully, made-up at 8:00 in the morning. Turk swears she was well over 80, although I thought perhaps 70-ish. She carried herself with the confidence of a woman still certain of her beauty, as she had every reason to be. We were joined by her friend of many years, an ex-showgirl who had been one of the original Rockettes, and whose late husband had been, at various points in his career, a stand-in for Vincent Price, a theatrical agent and a Las Vegas entertainer. Apparently, the two women and their husbands had had some rollicking good times together before all four retired to this quiet little town, and I marvelled and envied both their joyfully youthful style and the depth and longevity of their mutual bond.

At some point, this delightfully fascinating woman invited us into her living quarters/parlor in the original building. I have never seen anything quite like it before or since. She, or someone, had painted everything in sight ~ wooden cabinets, plastic lawn furniture ~ you name it, it was covered with paint and scenes of birds, flowers, landscapes ~ whatever had taken the painter's fancy. A huge scarf with enormous open squares was draped over a grand piano like a great yellow web spun by a demented spider. Our hostess had crocheted it herself, just as she had the rag rugs made from her husband's old shirts that were scattered all over the floor. Victorian tchotchkes perched on every available surface, adding to the sense of exuberant chaos.

But my absolutely favorite thing about the room was the mural. Her sister had painted it, she told me, and it took up two entire, rather large, walls. It was a free-flowing, non-sequential series of scenes and family portraits depicting the couple's colorful history together. Smiling, disembodied heads floated next to bucolic landscapes, which might be situated above a detailed rendering of a beloved dog or house or bird. They added to it, she said laughing, as the mood took them. It was mad. It was eccentric. It was wonderful.

I knew I wanted to be more like this lovely woman; to adopt some of her spiritual independence. This, I thought, is how women ought to be allowed to age; confident, vibrant, full of zest. This, I realized, is how I wanted to create my home ~ full of art that has meaning, created in pleasure and meant to bring joy to those who live and spend time there. Who cares what an interior decorator might think? Or your neighbors? Or the mental health practitioners, who will no doubt soon be knocking on your door? This is for you, your family, your friends. Home is where the heart is, after all. And mine is a wild and eccentric thing.

When we got back to the house I surveyed my tasteful but empty walls, covered in the pale blue floral chosen by a previous owner. I dragged out the small set of oils I'd purchased years ago and never used. I painted Red Tulips and hung it in my kitchen, where it still hangs today. I like it. It looks the way I meant it to look, always a happy surprise ~ bright and colorful, yet tinged with melancholy; short-lived beauty casting deep shadows into the last long rays of the sun. I know. I may not be crazy yet, but I'm working on it.

Best motel ever.