Of The Forest

Many people own homes. Usually, the home is associated with the street number or street name. Some may also associate their home by the neighborhood. When we hear of homes with actual names, we think of large palatial estates with fences and long driveways. We think of surnames preceded by a Von. We think of obnoxiously large abodes where the owner's bathroom can accommodate like 37 people. As for me, I don't think I'd like to share a bathroom with 36 other people, so I am happy Aimee and I have a small one. We're lucky like that. Anyway, even though our home is smaller than a big home's bathroom, we gave it a name. We're not necessarily practicing for a big mansion, but it's fun. You have a problem with that, you keep it to yourself..

When we moved in, we thought about naming our home for fun. We were excited to have a home to call our own (or the bank's). On the day we closed, Aimee actually bought a bunch of paint and painted our whole living room. Anyway, you get the picture... Ultimately, we didn't come to the name as much as the name came to us...Onward.

First let's review some well known homes that have really spiffy names:

There is Donald Trump's home, Mar-A-Lago:

Next, we have the famous Hearst Castle

And if you remember the 80's, you must know Falcon Crest:

We decided on the name of our house based on an overlapping and pleasant reminder: where our home is situated and where we stayed during our memorable trip to Chile. Behind our house, are woods, also known as a forest. When we went to Chile, we stayed at a hotel in a beautiful part of Santiago where the closest, large Avenue is called "Avenida El Bosque." The word bosque is Spanish for forest.

No more Mystery:

Lost in the Forest:

Lost in the forest, I broke off a dark twig
and lifted its whisper to my thirsty lips:
maybe it was the voice of the rain crying,
a cracked bell, or a torn heart.

Something from far off it seemed
deep and secret to me, hidden by the earth,
a shout muffled by huge autumns,
by the moist half-open darkness of the leaves.

Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel sprig
sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance
climbed up through my conscious mind

as if suddenly the roots I had left behind
cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood---
and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent.

-Pablo Neruda