I'm Adely Moe and this is The Slowdown.

When I'm feeling down, I Google my childhood home.

I put in the address and it usually pops up on the page on Zillow or some house buying

site even though it's not for sale at the moment.

And there's a picture of the front, the garage, the second floor addition my grandfather

built and the high fence, the new owner's built.

The inside has been renovated nicely, but there's still the fireplace that my stepmother

painted white and I almost lost my mind because it had always just been brick-colored brick

and then it was white brick and even then I didn't like change.

There's the back deck and the small studio where my mother used to make her ceramics.

There's no picture of the garden, but I bet you could make one.

I've always wanted to own it, though most likely I never will.

There's something about the idea of returning to it, to make it my home again that's intriguing.

And maybe it would be strange or too emotional or maybe it would collapse the timeline too

much in my mind.

The traffic's probably too loud.

The wildfire threats are real.

But I had good memories in that house and yes, every once in a while it goes on the market

at some outrageous California price I could never afford and I joke with my husband about

buying it.

I want it to always be mine, even though it already always is in my mind.

My first home, it looms large in the cells of my body.

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