Home in Orange
by Bella Sandoval
Photo Courtesy of Bella Sandoval
I was always told that people make a place home. Orange, California proved this true.
A stranger might walk down these quiet suburban streets and see nothing special — just a few neatly kept yards, pastel-painted one-story homes and low-hanging fruit trees spilling over paved sidewalks. If they were lucky enough to wander into Old Towne, they might stumble upon antique shops, cozy cafes and dive bars — my personal favorites.
This town of simple, historic charm became my home. Those once empty streets soon echoed with the laughter of my favorite late-night walks. If you look closely, you might see a few girls on their daily evening stroll through the Circle, ranting about grades, missing home and wondering why the boy they liked never texted back. Some stop at Palm Market & Deli, greeted by the soft chime of the front doorbell. Others make their way back to campus, heads buried in books, not realizing how quickly life is passing them by.
Frat boys play beer die in a sunlit backyard, laughing about the days when they were barely old enough to use a fake ID at Hooves Liquor. They can’t imagine being that young anymore, yet they can still feel the hangover shakes in their lofted twin XL beds like it was just yesterday.
A girl pedals home from class, chasing the ombré sunset and wondering if she chose the right place to grow up. She doesn’t yet know how much she’ll miss the wooden orange signs on her commute, back when her only worry was whether she’d rally for Thursday night at Paul’s Cocktails.
In a quiet garage, a guy strums his guitar, writing about how he’ll never be a kid again, hoping one day he’ll work up the courage to perform at the Flower Moon Festival. Down the street, a couple slips into Folino Theater for a thesis screening, knowing they’ve worked four long years for a 15-minute short film that’s meant to hold the story of who they’ve become.
Two girls race through their front door, makeup brushes in hand, ready for an evening that will stretch into the early hours when anything feels possible. A boy walks his Husky down Cambridge Street and Palm Drive, hoping the girl he likes will show up at his party — just so he could catch her smile in the middle of a packed, sweaty crowd.
In a dorm room, two roommates lie across from each other, laughing at how quickly freshman year has flown by. They’re already shouting, “I can’t wait to move into the K next year!”
All these stories unfold in just a few hours, as the town exhales into the weekend.
Our final slice of Orange will one day be served to all of us, whether we loved it or hated it. These moments can’t last forever — four years vanish before you realize they’ve begun. One day soon, the streets will belong to someone else. They’ll walk these same sidewalks, drink the same coffee, complain about the same professors and fall in love under the same trees. And they’ll call it home, just like we did.
When May comes, we’ll pack our cars and drive away, scattering in a hundred different directions. But somewhere deep inside, these streets will always hum with our voices.
Because people make a place home. And I’ll carry the sweet, sunlit memory of Orange with me for the rest of my life.
Orange, California will always be mine.