Houses like Abuela Amy's were built for company.
Who, or so I imagined, would enter the wide front door into a tidy foyer warmed by a quarter-ton potted plant and a brass umbrella stand. The door would be propped open against any errant ocean gust by a cast iron doorstop sculpted as a racehorse.
Guests would have their coat taken to the "hall closet" which was big enough to have its own window. Directly across was another small room, a 'supply closet', which held an auxiliary supply of a dozen wooden folding chairs, as well as valet equipment such as small sweepers, ashtray emptiers, and candle snuffs. The two areas were checkpoints into the large parlor or living room, as previously described.
A turn the other way would take guests directly into the dining room where a credenza appeared, topped with crystal punchbowl and oversized tray loaded with ornate two-ounce beakers with various colored handles. In the center of the room is Abuela's version of the king's round table with ten highback chairs. An elevated shelf above the room's wainscot holds a collection of whimsical cookie jars.
I hide in the back wicker-laden room where lesser guests are sometimes assigned. There is no one at the small French peasants' table. I'm on the floor's straw mat rug, shelling pecans from a large porcelain crock. In the window across from me I can see a slice of the ocean. Her collection of african violet pots line the windowsill. The west suns hits here late in the day, and all the plants have long since expired.
