Author: froghavenlady

House Hunting in the 90’s

You’re going to buy a house… BY YOURSELF?

Yes, Daddy…women DO own houses by themselves these days!

Well, just make sure you own the land, Honey.  Don’t get involved with any of that condo crap…

Once a father, always a father.  Daddy was still giving his advice, even now at eighty-seven years of age and in failing health.  He still had a keen mind for numbers and understood housing in general, the values, the neighborhoods and the choices I’d have in front of me.  He’d walked through many of the same homes over the years, measuring the kitchen and bath floors to give an estimate on new linoleum.    We were discussing some of the choices and the streets I’d visited with the realtor; I was keeping Daddy apprised of the week to week update of house hunting as a “single” woman.

I’m going to miss this Texan’s company once I finally find a house.  He’s been really nice to work with.

Just be careful, Honey… you gotta watch those guys…you never know……….

I was by now forty-two, divorced for nearly six years, and had been back home long enough to realize that I’d be staying in the area close to the folks and my family.    I had decided it was time for me to once again own a home.  The folks had offered to help with the down payment needed, and a friend had introduced me to a broker acquaintance of his.  I liked the broker very much.  The broker’s part time loan processor had agreed to take me around on evenings and weekends as he still had a valid real estate license.  The latter worked two jobs, packing musical instruments and parts in a warehouse during the day, and then playing loan processor in the evenings and weekends, depending on the workload.

In the first three or four weeks, we had looked at all kinds of houses; many well-kept older homes were now in very sketchy areas; or the neighborhood had declined so much so that the majority of activity was slowly changing over to commercial zoning use.  Some entire streets had bars over the doors and front windows; not exactly your Ozzie and Harriet’s America.  Chances were I’d have to forego the better neighborhoods if I wanted to own anything at all.  As we had already scoured the existing listings on the market in my price range, bank repos were beginning to look like my last resort.  My realtor was running low on properties, but didn’t seem to mind as it gave him something to do besides spending evenings working on paperwork or reading.

Finally, he suggested that I take a look at a home in an older, unincorporated area; so, we two set off that next September Saturday morning to view it.  This particular home had been vacant for over two years.  Surprisingly, there were no signs of vandalism or destruction on the outside; even the inside seemed untouched.  Once I entered and walked on the hardwood flooring, and took sight of the built- in book shelves on either side of the fireplace, I was hooked!  The cottage had a small formal dining room just behind the living room but adjacent to the kitchen door.  The formal dining area was exactly what I had dreamed of, as cooking and setting a pretty table were some of my favorite things to do!

The kitchen was extremely oversize as was typical with homes built just after the Second World War.  Surely a table or banquette had once existed in the far corner from the sink; I could tell by the second ceiling globe’s location just off to the side.

A real, honest to goodness laundry room stood between kitchen, front garage and the backyard door.  I’d finally have walls for the wallpaper that I’d held onto for years!  The two bedrooms were good size, each with a closet; though, typical of the period, the closets were very small.  The home had only one bath; describing it as mid-size would be exaggerating, but it was workable enough for one and would suffice when My Only came down on weekends.

All in all, I kept walking around, smiling and returning time and again to the dining room, the fireplace, the kitchen, then back again.  In only a few short minutes, I had given myself away.

This is the one, isn’t it?

Yes, I think so…  I absolutely love it! It reminds me of the older home my aunts and uncles once lived in in Berkeley years ago.  It has personality…LOOK! The built in room divider!  I could just see my things sitting on the shelves there…

Well then, guess we’d better go back and write up an offer!

We left to do the initial paperwork at the office.  Then, each of us decided it was too early to call it a day; so now what would we have to do?  I mentioned the art and wine festival that was downtown this weekend; if I bought the glasses, would he pay for the wine?  Seemed like a plan.  We spent a really nice Indian summer afternoon in the downtown district, sipping some wine and realizing that we both loved art and artsy stuff.

As luck would have it, the Realtor and I had decided there was something more than first met the eye…somewhat surprising as neither of us was actually looking for anyone at the time.  When I think back, I suppose getting locked out of a patio door at one home for sale and laughing over a cheap liver and onions dinner one evening eventually broke the ice! He didn’t have much money nor did I.  Neither of us was anything more than we presented; there was no pretense. There was also no denying that we were beginning to run out of ways to spend inexpensive, Saturday afternoons…

The house closed about six weeks later.  I took ownership a few days before my last month’s rent was ended, and took a couple days off from work to paint a good portion of the home’s interior.   In between painting, I had begun stripping some of the old wallpaper.  We would eventually find beautiful redwood paneling surrounding the fireplace wall.

I say “we”.  I sent out Christmas cards earlier than usual that year, announcing my remarriage as of November 29th:

I bought a house and

the Realtor came with it!!!

 

Couldn’t have dreamed up that storyline in a million years…

DNA of Carpetbaggers

I was really captured by the Great Society Program begun by President Johnson.  I told Daddy that I thought this was the correct thing to do: to give our country’s citizens a fair shake at a new beginning; it just seemed relative to the Civil Rights movement, and I saw the president’s vision as nothing short of admirable.

Daddy was a fair man but a bit more cautious; he agreed that President Johnson’s ideas were based on many good and righteous things. No one could argue against a war on poverty; but in Daddy’s experience, he argued that giving something to people in need didn’t necessarily make them stronger; nor did it teach them to take care of themselves. Daddy understood the human limitations in the president’s vision.

So, what did the Great Society actually accomplish?

Unfortunately, carpetbaggers selling a great society still exist some forty years later; some as intimidating and as mesmerizing as filmdom’s Elmer Gantry…perhaps that classic should be written into the curriculum for the junior high level.  I say junior high because of the great number of emotions and popular fads that tend to distract an already difficult and distracting decade for teenagers.

Sadly, one needn’t research Hollywood’s files to recognize the DNA of carpetbaggers.  They exist in current pop culture as well as political arenas; unfortunately, the more fantastic the dog and pony show, the more effective; especially on the lesser educated masses.

How our country has cheated our native born youth is despicable.  My assumption that all American children had access to an excellent education was quickly corrected once I experienced some conversations in a nation-wide call center. For over ten years, I discovered an ever decreasing, socially inept group of individuals from all races and ethnicities (no one region of our country was left untouched). Sadly, on any given day a number of calls would display the following traits:

Ignorant; these individuals thru no fault of their own could not read at a third grade level; they often struggled to read the manuals and, in some cases, had to be walked through the simplest instructions.  Funny how polite and thankful they could be…

Stupid; these individuals had, to their own credit, honed a “you can’t teach me anything; I already know” attitude; odd that several of them were degreed and in the professions; their natural layman’s sixth sense had been woefully affected by too many tight neck ties …

Illiterate; these individuals were often harder to discern; one had to listen carefully; then, when they walked through the step by step instructions referencing only the illustrations, it was at that point the light bulb went on! One realized just how dependent they were on others to survive in our written word world.  They rarely admitted their inability; often, they profusely thanked me for being so patient.

Uncivil; in this group, individuals could sling insults and four letter words at an incredible speed! They hurled them at both men and women representatives (they were extremely even-handed in their brusque manner).  As the years passed, their language (always unprintable) increased beyond incredible!!!

Apparently, arrogance has slowly replaced much of the civility of social graces; like mob rule. Supported by a group mentality, a bad attitude offers not only strength in numbers but also bi-partisan money-making opportunities by keeping victims at hand.  A few irresponsible individuals in protest, available to argue their talking point entitlements, make for great drama, especially on YouTube.

Perhaps we need to redefine the term: Affirmative Action.

Let America’s citizenry affirm:

  • That legal Americans only (by birth or process of naturalization) can work to further their education.
  • Let the border states uphold both their own states’ laws and the constitutional republic’s laws.
  • When possible, subject captured illegals to either deportation or community service – let them work for the money our country gives them in hospital care and other program services.

We have youth of all ethnic groups that were born here.  They are being used, demeaned, and ignored while politicians clamor for this year’s electoral votes.  I am appalled that we are still cheating the youth of this country, just because they do not meet the “hot minority of the moment”.

You are being used by politically savvy mouthpieces… wake up! Demand better! Or, better yet, leave the party and vote independently…YOUR voice of disgust and embarrassment over these political hacks must be heard!

We don’t need Spain sending representatives over to count our ballot boxes.  We need upstanding citizens answering to their local county clerk and volunteering to count the ballots.  If you remember nothing else, a constitutional republic begins with WE THE PEOPLE.  Exert your independent voice and get involved before your citizenship is declared moot.

Got Juice?

Husbands and wives have lots to learn about housekeeping practices, including the manner in which the family refrigerator is organized. Take designer containers, juice keepers, bottles or pitchers; do you know which ones are normally used for breakfast juice or leftover coffee at your love nest address?

My father learned this the hard way, having mistakenly heated up the contents of a covered glass jar and served it to my mother for her Sunday morning coffee.  Unfortunately, olive juice does not taste anything like coffee, even with added cream and sugar.  Fast forward a few years ago.  My Rogue arrived home before me and during the course of the evening commented on how “very sweet” that juice is, but he’d get used to it.  My immediate reaction was to ask “What juice?”, but after he had described the particular pitcher, I made an immediate beeline to the kitchen.  No need to panic, I assured myself.  I removed the pitcher from the refrigerator, filled the hummingbird feeder, and then settled in for my weekend’s quiet vigil.

Seven Sure Signs that my hubby mistakenly drank from the pitcher containing hummingbird syrup:

Number 7:  When his favorite barber asked, “Want the usual?” he responded “No, just feather the sides, please.”

Number 6:  He changed his voter registration to the Green Party.

Number 5:  He was the only fan sitting at the tennis match who moved his entire body from side to side during each and every rally.

Number 4:  He insisted on our choosing a garden theme with lots of red accents for the master suite.

Number 3:  He now prefers Landscaper’s Challenge to Monday Night Football.

Number 2:  He showed an unusual and renewed curiosity in my old houseplants.

Number 1:  He continually switches from chair to loveseat to sofa and back to chair during cocktails.

Time to Break

A Daddy’s Girl despite why we argued or how;

Thus, better to hide among life’s background noise.

Six decades have passed; I hear his words even now.

Compromise was the quieter, less tiring voice.

 

Exhausting my arguments one too many times,

I delved into service, believing it wise.

I sought comfort and purpose from childhood rhymes,

Discerning a modicum of truth from the lies.

 

Ambitions still there; might I risk them now grown?

And yet a daughter still…how can that be?

My sensitive soul recalls dreams of my own,

Attempting to live a life fashioned for me.

 

Clearly, the conscious obliged by my heart

Has reasoned the artistic yearn much too strong.

Time to break childish habits apart!

Grasp hold of the hour and release my own song!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Snicker, Snicker

During retirement, Daddy had to get out of the house.  He was not good at staying inside or staying still for very long.  Each morning, he had to renew himself among pals and coffee shop buddies.  He could only afford to go to the race track two or three times a week, so options were limited.

When Mom needed something from the store and the weather was nice, he’d occasionally walk down to the boulevard. Of course, Daddy was only concerned with making sure that he picked up the correct items and brought the correct amount of change back or he’d never hear the end of it.  He knew his math, so focused on the list and the total change received.  So what was the big deal?  In Daddy’s mind, shopping was easy; in fact, there was nothing to it; sort of a slam dunk operation.

Lots of changes had occurred along the boulevard; a second bank, an ATM machine, larger parking lots for the few anchor businesses left (like the Ace Hardware affiliate) and all things coming of age for the small, born-again, thriving shopping district.

The neighborhood had lost the independent grocery store many years before, but still had a major grocery chain within walking distance.  On one of these errands for Mom, it occurred to Daddy that he could walk down the candy aisle and find the little Snickers baggies there; yep, there they were.  His wife had given him plenty of cash…shouldn’t be noticed in the total…so; he picked up one bag and added it to the basket.

He arrived back at 3671 Rubberneck and, seeing that his wife was preoccupied in the kitchen, sidestepped through the dining room and walked straight to his bedroom pillow.  He placed the bag of Snickers carefully behind and out of sight.  There.  All set.  This was one bag of candy that she wouldn’t hide from him.  Then, he entered the kitchen and placed the grocery bag on the end of the counter with the receipt and change for Mom.  No problem.

A few minutes later, Daddy was again playing Solitaire at the card table.  He’d already checked his stocks, so was playing cards and listening to the talk radio program when Mom left the kitchen and entered the front room:

So, Honey, where is the candy?

What candy?  I didn’t buy any candy.

You’d didn’t, huh?

You didn’t have that written down.

No, I didn’t.  But the receipt says candy, $1.79 on it….

What do you mean?  Where?  Let me see…

Right here.  CANDY.  See that?

A few moments quiet as Daddy adjusted his glasses and reviewed the grocery receipt… To his chagrin, he hadn’t noticed the recently introduced line item tabulations that classified each purchase in easy to read print.

(Expletives followed)

And you thought you were being clever, didn’t you?

I witnessed this little exchange and understood exactly how he felt when Mom got the best of us.  Daddy turned to me for support and sympathy.

I can’t win.  I thought for sure I’d gotten the better of her this time, but that mother of yours finds everything…

Same Train, Different Day

How Daddy and my godfather were best friends as young men still eludes me.  When I knew them both, there was nothing similar in either their approaches or attitudes toward life. Still, if opposites attract, then perhaps therein lay the explanation.

My godfather was Italian descent and worked as an accountant for Southern Pacific Railroad.  My godmother worked at a meat packing factory, so she was never a stay-at-home housewife until retirement.  They were married for as many years as my folks, but had raised no children of their own.

Because of different family commitments and schedules, it was seldom that the two couples actually spent much time together socially anymore.  But on occasion, we’d be invited to their home for a Saturday dinner.  Their invitation was special and we young ones were always included! Mom would dress us in our best clothes and wear a nice dress herself.  Even Daddy wore a nice shirt and a sport coat for the occasion!

Fortunately, the two childhood friends married women who truly enjoyed each others’ company.  Once we arrived, Mom spent time visiting in the kitchen.  Theirs was one of the few kitchens in which my mother could actually remain “company”, sitting to enjoy her drink. My godmother was usually finishing up the salad.

Winnie and I were served Shirley Temples for our cocktails, and could choose to stay in the kitchen with Mom or move out front to the living room and listen to my godfather and Daddy going back and forth.  During those evenings, three things were a given:

  • By the middle of the second round of cocktails, the two men would already be at odds over the day’s political issues;
  • The Italian dinner served would be exceptional; and
  • Waiting for us on the coffee table were two brand new coloring books with boxes of Crayola crayons.

Each visit, the books were the same.  The pictures to color were pen and ink illustrations of the sights and sounds found along the SP route.  New boxes of crayons helped make coloring the familiar pictures bearable, but given the colored photos and topics, creativity was limited; orange groves would always be orange. So would the mountains always remain brown and grey, just like their color photograph counterparts included alongside each black and white page.

Ultimately, Daddy and my godfather would begin to run down.  Before we left for home, my godmother would open her freezer and place some small ham steaks, sausages, and bacon from the meat plant in a bag for us to take home to enjoy.

At the end of the evening, we’d hop in the car for the short trip home. Most of the conversation was about how wonderful the night’s dinner had been!  We in the back seat changed the subject by admitting to the folks just how tired we were of coloring oranges and train tracks.  All Mom could do was giggle. Daddy was laughing too, adding that he’d noticed additional pencils, paper tablets, and other supplies his old friend had on hand.  It was obvious to us all that Daddy was still disgusted from the evening’s political arguments.

Daddy was still shaking his head and cussing under his breath when he drove up our driveway…

Household Expectations

When the doorbell rang and it was one of Daddy’s business friends, we enjoyed it as much as the adults.   We immediately left homework or other activities aside, greeted all of these “father types” with a hug and a kiss, and then sat down to enjoy a bit of attention ourselves during the visit.

Our home was nothing fancy or intimidating, just comfortably lived in.  Because Daddy’s business approach was genuine and all inclusive, he considered our home an extension of his business.  Daddy wanted guests to feel comfortable dropping by, any day, any time, and through any door.  Thus, he expected his household to be prepared.

Whoever stopped by, Daddy automatically walked into the kitchen to prepare a highball or pour a glass of red, then instructed Mom to slice the salami and some cheese and set a plate within easy reach.

Daddy especially enjoyed the men’s camaraderie; Daddy had been very bashful as a young man, so he wanted to make sure every visitor made himself at home.  Daddy would fling a piece of sourdough toward our guest; while the bread was in flight, he’d yell:

Don’t be bashful!

A slice of salami or cheese followed right after.  Our visitors soon learned to either help themselves quickly or plan to catch the home staples in mid-air!

One of Daddy’s pet peeves was not having enough for dinner to extend the offer to any unexpected visitor. If Daddy walked into the kitchen and Mom hadn’t cooked an “extra” chop or serving of that night’s meal, he could get really upset. This was harder on Mom than it was on anyone else; Mom didn’t shift as quickly or as easily as Daddy wanted her to, though she did make every effort to support Daddy’s expectations in the long run.

Truthfully, our guests didn’t really care about any refreshments.  They knew they were always welcome.  Our home was cheap entertainment for most of them, a respite from their own family troubles and a comfortable stop at the end of a tough day…certainly; one could forget his troubles after a half-hour around our household!

Mom enjoyed the attention too, but for most of the visit, remained in busy homemaker mode in her kitchen.  Consequently, she was unaware of the potted plant inventory that Daddy and a business friend decided to take during one of these visits. Because our living room was well filled with plants, antique vases and several family photos, our business associate told Daddy that our house looked like a funeral home – then proceeded to prove his point by counting all the potted plants around the perimeter, setting the stage for any and all follow-up banter at Mom’s expense.

When they had each stopped after reaching twenty-something in the living room alone, the men gave Mom their results.  Mom made it perfectly clear that she was not going to let anyone get the best of her regarding her beloved plants or children’s or grandchildren’s  photos!  And, she added, if she wanted to find a way to add more, she would!

Daddy never stopped laughing over the funeral home comment.  Obviously, such visits were a bit of respite for Daddy as well as his friends whom, in hindsight, I’m totally convinced were more able to laugh and relax around us than they could in most other places.

Heaven knows, at least when company was there, Mom wasn’t finding fault with the way Daddy’s shirt was buttoned, or how his pant cuffs were dragging…