Nancy Meyers ruined homes for me.
That’s it, I said it. I expect to hear a hundred raging fans banging at my door any second now, and in true Nancy fashion, I’ll want to run under the covers of my china blue duvet, while Roberta Flack carries out the soundtrack to my downturned life. Tears, oh yes you guessed it. There would be tears. The kind that would well and well, only to cascade into soft tissues that would soon become the enemy to my enraged nose.
Ok, I confess! I’m being dramatic. Reality is, even the leading ladies would have plowed through the tears, told the raging fans where to better direct their energies, and in turn, discovered some kind of wonderful facet of themselves that they never knew existed. Leaving viewers delightfully uplifted with the soiree of a life they could never have… Or could they?
I suppose up to this point I never realised just how strong of an influence Nancy Meyers had on my perception of real estate. You could say every one of her movies dug that gardener’s rake deeper into my soul. And just like first love, the wound was cast years ago, in the form of a little house on 24 Maple Drive, San Marino… Aha, that’s right, Steve Martin lied! The white picket-fenced home with vivid pansies that pathed the way to a forest green front door, below forest green shutters, was all a mystic facade!
An effortless jest that anyone with Diane Keaton’s smile, or Steve’s neurotic tendencies, could create memories in a home so beautiful that no problem was too big. This, as a child, affected me. I pictured myself being the one to glide down the grand sloping staircase. To have lively conversations on soft slipcover sofas by the fireplace. To simmer stews in that butcher block kitchen. To read paperbacks on wingback chairs, next to filtered lamplight, on dainty lamp tables. It is around here that my obsession with lamps, and finding places to lounge next to lamps, began.
So how can I claim that Nancy Meyers, the woman whose movies filled my dreams with so much hope as a child, ruined homes for me? Well, as many of you know, the Father of the Bride house resides in Pasadena California. The sort of suburb where only wealth, or a long family line, could get you through the door. It didn’t take me very long to realise that all the other homes from her films, came with infamous pricetags too. So what was a dreamer, with an albeit substandard income to do? Nancy had once and for all dashed the very dreams she planted years ago from me… Or had she?
Flashback to the 26th April 2020, when my husband and I happened to drive past a charming four-bedroom family house, in a quiet court. Sounds perfect right? Not exactly. Yes, it was pleasing to the eye, boasting an established amber leafed Maple tree that climbed all the way up, from soil to window, past the far-reaching gutters. Where the brick and bones of the house were strong, but the face, its appearance, was tired. Forgotten. An early 1990’s timewarp, with pink walls, curtains, and matching floors. Even so, it left me with the same longing to create a space just as welcoming as the movies I once loved. So with rosy vision, we bought it; the house so desperately in need of becoming a home.
It was from here that Bridge and Harvest Home found its roots. I wanted to document our home’s journey, to cover all the tips and tricks we learned along the way, and all the future endeavors we will stumble across, and share them with you.
Perhaps Nancy was onto something after all?…