Scene 1:
Making our way up that steep hill, which was probably close to the thousandth time in my life we made this drive; I saw it.  The house that felt like a castle to me.  The house where anything was possible and real life fairy tales were lived.  In reality we were just in an old neighborhood on the north side of Corona, California, the farthest thing from the magical.    Not to me though.  My grandparents' house felt like heaven, and I still will compare it to that to this day.  The house was at the top of a very steep hill, with a long stairway of steps to the door, which really did make it feel like a castle.  The big oak tree outfront that I spent hours of my life climbing, the 3 vintage cars outfront that my grandpa would be constantly working on.  As a little girl, the hours on end I spent here felt  like a dream.

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Scene 2:
1477 Sandalwood, an address imprinted in my brain more than my own.  It had a special smell.  As soon as the front door opened you would be flooded by this smell; almost earthy, yet that old people smell that was so welcoming.  It smelt like a house that had been lived in for many years, the scent was an accumulation of memories made.  The library of books in the basement that my grandmother had collected, the closets full of clothes from my mom's high school dances, the endless row of rose bushes out in the garden, the hot tamales jar that was never left unfilled.  All of these things added to the signature “sandalwood scent” .  There is nothing like it, I immediately felt at home when I smelt this scent.

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Scene 3: 
The ear piercing sound of the blender as it mixed together our breyers vanilla ice cream and lots of hershey's chocolate syrup (even some crushed oreos on special occasions).  The blender was installed into the countertop, which I thought was the coolest thing ever. My brothers and I would go sit on the countertop and patiently wait for my grandpa to be done pouring them into glasses, with extra chocolate syrup swirled into the glass.  This was the start of our nightly routine.  Milkshakes, and rushing back to the couch to watch Nanny Mcfee for the millionth time.  Sometimes we would switch it up and watch Pink Panther, but I never got old of Nanny Mcfee.  

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Scene 4:
Running downstairs in my PJs at the bright and early hour of 7am, my grandpa was already dressed and awake waiting in the kitchen with his morning coffee.  We would hurry outside and jump into his 1956 Ford F-100 bright yellow truck.  This truck was my grandpa's prize possession, and he always drove us to the donut shop up the street in it.  Going in “the yellow truck” was a big deal.  He did not drive it much in order to keep it in good shape, but he would always drive my brothers and I in it.  This made us feel so special that he would take us out in his nice car.  His everyday car was his rustic blue 1970 El Camino.  No matter what car we were in, I always felt so cool.  The rides to the donut shop are a core memory of mine.  Walking in and sticking my face up against the glass case full of endless donuts.  I never changed my order, I got a chocolate bar and a chocolate milk every time.  The chocolate bar was still warm as I took my first bites.  

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Scene 5:
“Nice and gentle strokes Ruby”, said my grandmother, who we actually called Grandmother.  She thought grandma, grammy, and names like that were too “slang”.  My Grandmother was always very classy, and taught me to be that way, so she expected nothing less.  She reminded me to use nice gentle strokes during our weekly painting lessons in the art room.  As a young girl, I would often jab at the canvas, not really caring about how it turns out.  The art room was so quaint and peaceful, I could sit in there for hours and just stare out the windows.  My grandmother taught me many lessons in this room, lots of them about painting, but they always seemed to metaphorically be life lessons as well. 

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Scene 6:
The wind flipped through the pages of my Bible and it opened a page that led me to a verse in the Bible that at the time really spoke wisdom and truth into my life. I went on a winter camp trip for the weekend through my church.  All my friends from school were going and I was just excited to hangout with them for the weekend more than anything else.  One day we were required to have quiet journaling time.  It did not have to be about the message or God, just be with yourself.  I remember it was windy and my Bible was next to me as I drew in my notebook.  I can’t remember the exact verse now, but at the time it was so powerful.  This was the start on my own personal journey in my faith as a Christian, seperate from my parents.