The California Room

We call it "The California Room" because I've had nothing but bad experiences in the State of Florida - but that's another story. Also, I'm from California, so naturally, I'm biased.

The word "lanai" seemed too exotic, and the term "sunroom" seemed too banal. So instead of a "Florida Room," which many people generically call a glass-enclosed addition leading to the outdoors, ours became "The California Room." In March of 2020, it became my sanctuary and escape from the pandemic-filled news cycle.

When we originally purchased the creek house in 2017, a selling point was the 8-ft x 10-ft bonus room off the back that overlooked the water, a few massive oak trees, and an expansive yard. We even toasted the escrow closing from this room with champagne and, bizarrely, cold fried chicken. Hey, ya make do in a pinch!

Sitting inside kind of felt like being in a fishbowl, but even though it had lots of windows and light on three sides, it wasn't a place anyone wanted to hang out. The room faced due west, so it was perfectly situated for spectacular sunset gazing, but the beige paneled walls and dirty brown painted wood floors were beyond depressing.

The previous owner had left behind an oversized white wicker rocking chair, a 1960's table lamp with a cracked shade, and a cheap black highboy metal dining set. I couldn't wait to transform the space — DIY style!

Like a crazy person between running local farm tours on the weekends and managing my travel website and pop-up markets during the week, I decided to add yet another project onto my plate in the summer of 2018.

I envisioned a bright, airy room filled with books, butterflies, botanicals, maps, and tribal art — sort of a love letter to global travel that would remind me of my Mom (the best road trip partner anyone could ask for) and all the destinations we never got to explore together.

She passed away in 2012, and I moved to California for a few months to liquidate her sixty-nine years of belongings and my childhood memories. My Mom dabbled in antiques and had a garage filled with art, furniture, and baubles collected or inherited from my grandparents that she intended to sell on eBay or at the local antique mall.

When I finally sold the house in 2015, I shipped a lot of it 3000-miles across the country to New York to sort through everything and make peace with letting it go. Each piece seemed to have a memory attached to it. It took me a few years to dwindle down all the furniture: my grandmother's brass living room lamp gifted to a friend here, my Mom's pie bird display table on loan to a friend there ... actually, Mackenzie, can I get that back from you? ;)

By the time we purchased the creek house five years later, I still had a treasure trove left of accessories and mementos with which to decorate. Besides the paint and fabric choices, I was confident about the rest of the design since I had boxes of décor options waiting for me to pore over. A day bed frame, constructed onsite by generous friends that summer, was the pivotal piece in "The California Room" to start me off and running.

Over the course of two weekends, I first painted the entire room a cheery "haint blue" — the color they use on front porches in the South to extend daylight at dusk. Some say the shade helps keep bees and wasps from nesting in the eaves, and some say it wards off haunted spirits. All I know is the color gives me a sudden craving for a tall glass of refreshing "swate tay."

Next, I painted over the floor with a toasty yellow hue and picked up a Moroccan-inspired floor stencil at a craft store. I whipped out my expert dabbing skills, and although it was a tough competition, the foam sponge won out over the natural bristle stippling brush after a few experimental trials. "The California Room's" floor was, in fact, "spongeworthy." And if I may say so, the results were orgasmic!

It took two full painstaking days working late into the night, but I felt triumphant when finished, like a "Moorish Banksy" leaving my mark overnight on Andalucia in the south of Spain! Alright, alright, maybe I exaggerate...but the squirrels peering in at dawn seemed pretty wowed.

Next, I ordered a butterfly mattress cover, and then I hit the fabric store and found a striped cotton pattern to complement the mustard floor color. I stapled the fabric onto the wood frame as a daybed skirt and used the rest of the material to make throw pillows for the bed and rocking chair — sealing the seams with sewing tape and a sizzling hot old Hamilton Beach iron. MacGyver got nothin' on me!

By that point, I was in the zone, time slipped away, and the Chi was flowing. The rest of the design poured out of me by the carload as I transported my storage finds to the new house: an African and Asian mask collection amassed from various garage sales, a gold horseshoe table I got before the 25th Street Antique Garage closed in Chelsea a few years back, an illuminated world globe and a crystal ball paperweight my Mom and I bought together, an old-fashioned trunk she gave me to take across country to college when I graduated high school, her antique shadow box that we could use to display wine corks, a pair of old binoculars from my grandfather, her lily-shaped bedside lamp, and books and writings by her favorite authors like James Michener, Alex Haley, Paulo Coelho, Khalil Gibran, and William Shakespeare. And of course, I couldn't forget to add her signature window box plant: purple African Violets.

Designing, painting, crafting, and accessorizing the room was therapeutic, but the amount of joy and peace that just having this room has brought to me is immeasurable. Last year, as the world seemed to shrink and get darker for most people as their anxious pandemic fears set in, my world got bigger, brighter, and more peaceful, and it was because of this space.

From "The California Room," I watched every season unfold. I saw the trees bud and blossom, and the leaves fall and mulch. The birdfeeder outside attracted new species of birds to identify and listen to daily. From this room, I saw deer grazing and baby geese waddling. I saw majestic bald eagles and blue herons glide across the horizon, and awkward wild turkeys bungle their take-offs over the creek. I saw squirrels chase each other around the oaks, and tragically, I also saw beavers gnaw away at a 50-foot majestic willow tree which sent it crashing into a watery grave.

I worked, read, napped, laughed, cried, played guitar, sang, and meditated from here as nature continued to evolve around me. I saw people swim laps, catch fish, and kayak, and I even saw a pilot land a bi-plane on pontoons. I listened to the raindrops on the roof and watched hundreds of lightning bugs sparkle in the yard. I heard symphonies of chirping crickets and cicadas. I watched the dappled sunlight climb the room's walls at golden hour, and I took pictures of some of the most spectacular sunsets and snowscapes of my life from here.

Gratitude. Gratitude. Gratitude. I remind myself daily how lucky I am to have this space.

I sense my Mom every time I enter this room, and that makes me feel blessed. It's comfy and cozy and colorful and inspiring — just like her. The world feels safer, more logical, and more loving from here. Everything has its seasons and cycles if we stop to notice and just let things unfold organically.

"The California Room" saved my soul and sanity for the last year, and I'm so thankful that it was already filled with my favorite things and waiting for me as a nature observatory and creativity lab when I needed it most. (We still need to replace the crappy black dining set, but that will come).

Ironically, the more I look at it, I realize "The California Room's" design was inspired by my love for the eclectic and worldly décor of the Ernest Hemingway House — which is located in…wait for it…

Florida! ;)

Video tour above. Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please share or like below! <3 CKS