In My Words: Kimberly Burton Allen, Writer

Estimated Reading Time: 5 minutes Dixieland jazz was my childhood soundtrack. First, the LP records (they didn’t call them Long Playing for nothing) on the Hi-Fi stereo console: Jack Teagarden, Louis Armstrong’s Hot Five and Hot Seven, the haunting soprano sax of Sidney Bechet, the seemingly improvisational, but actually well-polished lively sounds of the Firehouse Five + 2, who we could occasionally enjoy live at Disneyland as many of the members of the band were animators, illustrators, and members of Disney studios. There was“Strictly From Dixie,” Benson Curtis’s radio program of trad (traditional) jazz every Saturday at 5 PM, recorded on Dad’s Teac reel-to-reel and played back endlessly over the backyard speakers while we swam in the pool and Dad pruned the palm trees or barbecued the chicken. My parents were charter members of Orange County’s Jazz Inc. jazz club, which hosted a meeting/performance on the second Sunday of each month at a local Moose lodge. From time to time, we kid...

Home! The weather has only gotten better the farther East we've traveled. Located as we are on the end of Long Island, we are accustomed to being the last area to experience the seasons. Trees were already budding out in Kansas, Illinois, and Indiana, and winter wheat (?) crops along the interstate were the green of a St. Patrick's Day celebration. I'm glad I packed tee shirts for the final leg back home. It's always interesting to note gasoline prices in the middle of the USA. Yes, prices are always lower than on either coast, especially since California has emission strictures and added taxes in place. But current supply and demand have brought prices down to a level I haven't seen maybe since I learned to drive. A sign off the Pennsylvania Turnpike this morning: Once we hit the middle of the country, road traffic picked up considerably. Most of it was semi-truck traffic, understandably as long-distance truckers are always our lifeline, but especially...

Sunday morning, March 22. Early morning last walk through Heisler Park to say goodbye to the beach. Below the gazebo on the bluff, I caught sight of someone who could teach Master Classes in Social Distancing. Look very closely...that's his black hoodie tucked into the rocks, watching the waves. Now that's the ultimate in enjoying the outdoors by yourself. Bravissima! I'm a hugger, and as such this self-isolation is difficult for me to remember to maintain. The last time I pointed an elbow at someone was during a drinking game where you used your elbow to indicate your partner had to take a drink because it was "rude to point." We had dinner with a family who always offers Grace beforehand. We did it elbow to elbow. You do what you can to stay safe.    We set out soon after the walk for our Great Escape Across the Country. Orange County, CA gave us a stellar send off with amazingly clear skies that showcased snow covered mountains backing verdant green rain...

Here's my idea of social distancing! So we're nearly at the end of our Laguna Beach sabbatical, due to head East this Sunday morning into a six-day journey into the unknown. Will there be difficulties finding hotels? Will restaurants be open, or offering only take out? What in the way of car munchies should I take, just in case? What about wine? (Kidding. You know we're packing wine.) Two weeks ago I planned to leave my overstock of toilet paper with my neighbors but now, in light of the Great TP Panic, we'll find somewhere in the Subaru to cram in our packages of the Great White Blessing. Because, really...road trips. Truck stops. Nationwide paranoia. I picture needing to use the loo somewhere off a highway gas station where TP is just a memory. I haven't packed in my own TP since I was a Girl Scout on a survivalist outing. (Come to think of it, I don't think I fared very well then either.) I'm an avowed control freak, and so this pandemic, where...

It's the Extra Day of February, and I'm nursing a crummy cold but looking out our window here in Laguna over a brilliant blue ocean and waving eucalyptus and palm trees. And making lists -- Go, Keep, Save, Sell, Donate. I've always admired people like our 2019 managers Dina & Ralph who can live spontaneously, who are open to new possibilities and don't overthink taking advantage of what might be a life-changing opportunity. People who don't take roots too seriously because they know they can always grow new ones and entwine themselves in new soil. They trust in themselves at a level that I've always believed surpasses mine. But nope; I'm a Capricorn, one of those who worry and plan and weigh the odds before making big decisions. So when, shortly after we decided to put the B&B on the market, the opportunity to secure an apartment in the neighborhood we loved came up, I thought we were Working the Plan: Sell the house in New York, move back to C...

Post-Labor Day Beach, Southampton So this summer was The Experiment. Chris and I have owned and operated our bed and breakfast for 17 years. We'd like to sell, and move back to California. (Okay, full disclosure: *I* would like to sell and move back to Laguna Beach. Chris is still on the fence. But he feels that I moved East in 1992 for him, so he owes me. At this point, I'm taking him up on it.) We were tired. Borderline burnout. So last year about this time, we thought Okay, if we aren't going to sell anytime soon, what about bringing in managers? Which, if you've followed this blog, you know we did. And they did an awesome job for their 6-month contract, which ended September 30. Over the summer, which we spent back in Laguna Beach, Chris had shoulder surgery, followed by months of rehab. But we still enjoyed our first summer off from work in all of Chris's working life. (Being a self-employed writer for 10 years prior to opening ABM, you might argue ...

In January of 2002 Chris and I closed escrow on a great historical property with the intention of running a bed and breakfast in the style that both of us loved: warm, home-like spaces where guests were welcomed with care but not intruded upon; wonderful creative breakfast fare served daily on our wedding china and crystal; the chance to act as ambassadors to an area we'd lived in for ten years and wanted to share. In a few years, A Butler's Manor was named the top-ranked bed and breakfast in the Hamptons, a ranking we continue to enjoy and be proud of. It's our baby, carefully curated and loved and agonized over and gratified by.  Our blood has run in this business, our sweat literally poured into every inch of the ground it sits on, every corner and crevice of the structure. But it's time to stretch, to find where next we need to be. The time (market, buyers) has not been right to sell, so last fall, we decided upon Plan B. In order to grow and change and transiti...