A pic of our friend Aaron from way back when. We lived in an early twentieth century servants' quarter behind a mansion in Santa Barbara. It had weathered old wood, and avocado trees grew their limbs up to our kitchen windows. The two of us separately inhabited the top floor, our doors only a few feet apart. We'd wake each other up in the morning with weird noises, discussing the surf, and drinking coffee. The warm afternoons brought barbecue and cold beer. There was artwork in the hallways. Creaking on windy nights. An old motorcycle.
It was sad the day Aaron left. A drug dealer had moved in below us, and the vibe had all but vanished from the little world we had back there. We packed up and moved soon thereafter to another old house that creaked, but this time no avocados. Indeed, it was never the same.
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