Category: memories

River Fire Still Burning

On By Theresa Fowler-HarrisonIn Fire ecology, firefighting, hiking, memories, Monterey, Salinas, Uncategorized, wildlifeLeave a comment

With each River Fire report, my mind is flooded with memories of Toro Park.

Wendy and I were Tiger Moms. I admit this now. Wendy, if she were here, would say, “No, we were doing our best.” The thing is we were highly competitive. Not with our children but with each other. Never more so than on the hills.

I used to be a competitive swimmer. I was okay, hung with super fast Olympians, so I was fast by association. It took years to squelch that competitive nature. It’s in my spirit, it’s in my soul, and I cannot turn it on or off. If I run with someone, I strive to maintain pace at their shoulders or get ahead. The latter, of course, is preferable. Wendy, on the other hand, never competed. It was not something her family did, nor did her boarding school offer. But, Wendy would have been top-notch, a beast, number one, had she been given the opportunity. I know this because of how many times we marched up Toyon Ridge, Cougar Ridge, or Black Mountain, really, any of those butt-burning hills. We did a few, including the Big Sur Marathon, but that is another story. This is about our close encounter with a bull.

On this particular day, we hiked up Toyon Ridge–not East Toyon, but the fire road that goes straight up, like 20% grade. Okay, maybe 12%. The entire time, Wendy was asking me questions, and not questions to which I could gasp a simple “Yes” or “No.” No, Wendy would ask, “How do you feel about” questions. Or “What do you think about” questions. Questions I had to answer, because I could not show that I was out of breath or act like I was dying. In fact, I was exhausted, long into anaerobic glycolysis, and accumulating lactic acid in my blood stream, as I panted and puffed my way up the hill always at her shoulder. For her part, she smiled at me, almost laughed, and I know darn well what she was thinking. She was thinking she’s in better shape, and yes, yes, she was. Every once in awhile, Wendy humored me into thinking I was pushing her.

After an hour or more of hiking, we reached the top of Mt. Ollason, enjoyed the view to the coast, and headed the downhill trek to the parking lot. It was still early afternoon when we connected with the Gilson Gap trail, so we decided to veer toward Meyers Loop, adding an additional three miles to our already five mile hike. Easy peasy. It’s still pretty much downhill, and we had plenty of snacks and water, so all was well.

Until, the end of Meyers Loop. There, the trail narrows to a one-way animal trail, with steep canyon walls covered in poison oak on both sides. I was in the lead, practically racing home for a bubble bath and glass of Chardonnay to soothe my aching muscles. Wendy was behind me, and at least two of our daughters (I have no idea which ones went on this walk) behind her. Directly in front of us, on this single-lane track, was the biggest bull I have ever seen, and I have seen a few bulls since our girls were in 4H. We froze. The bull froze. The herd behind him froze. He stared at me. I stared back. What now? No way were we going to back up the hill, and add yet another three more miles to the walk at this point. Wendy suggested sliding down the ravine, damned be any rashes we get. The girls behind us were terrified, trusting in their mothers’ wisdom and instincts.

I was too tired to think clearly. Instead, I responded as real cowboy would (or how I imagined one would). I raised my hiking sticks high in the air, like as lasso above my head, and yelled “Git along, little doggie. Git along.” The bull, along with his herd of cows, responded with terror at this mad-woman screaming and yelling. The cattle turned and ran back down the hill, and we were free to pass.

Sky met a cow for the first time in Toro Park

Looking south east toward Eagle Peak

It’s been awhile, nearly 2 years…

On By Theresa Fowler-HarrisonIn downsizing, flood, foreclosure, inheritance, memories, rural town, UncategorizedLeave a comment

since I have written on this site. It’s not like I haven’t thought about it, but four plus months of quarantine gave me the time. Who knew retirement could be so busy? In the past two years, we completed numerous house projects, traveled to many foreign countries–mostly in Central America, celebrated our newest grandbaby (first boy in years), wrote a book, explored everywhere in our new environs, and planted nearly 100 lavender plants over the septic field. Mostly, 2018 and 2019 was unpacking my life. So, here is where I left off.

February, 2016–The snow lasted for two months. I’d call this real snow as opposed to the realtors’ term of decorator snow. Our Boston girl, who braved the record-breaking storms of 2014, would call this nothing.

Sometime in March, spring rains plus snow melt sent a torrent of water cascading towards our house. Remember our steep driveway? Since water takes the most direct route, the river poured off our ski-run of a driveway into the garage, filling a small lake on the garage floor. We squeegeed and stacked sandbags as a temporary measure, then cut and installed a drainage system further upstream. Thanks to Cal Fire who provided bags and sand. Apparently, many roads and homes besides ours were deluged that winter.

Next, I set to salvaging what I could from soggy shipping boxes—nearly twenty boxes from our old house were stacked floor to garage rafters. Into new plastic containers, I tossed Sammy’s gymnastic attire, 4H uniforms, and yearbooks—assorted momentos from our adult childrens’ childhood. Stacks of plaques, a box of ribbons and medals from swim meets, another box of gymnastic medals—these were moved to higher places in the garage until our daughters have their own garages and can store their own memories.

Then there were the boxes of Dad’s things. Dad received more accolades than his four children (sum total) ever earned. Our loving father was accomplished, a fine man, a leader, but he saved everything—Mom’s cards from anniversaries, Valentine’s, Easter, Christmas, and our Father’s Day and birthday cards. It pains to dump these memories, but who has room for this? None of us are hoarders, neither was Dad, yet stacks of boxes attested to his OCD and his loving heart. I dispatched manuals from every appliance he ever owned. I shredded bank account reports and tax statements—no need to keep after 5 years—although Dad’s file box harkened to the 1960s. But recycling floral cards signed the same way every year for 64 years, “Always yours, John” or “Forever yours, Mary”—that takes a stronger person than me, his daughter. Kan-Mari helped.

One bin held Mom’s art lessons and artwork. Another bin held photos from Dad’s work and travels, another a stack of Dad’s treasures— basically things I couldn’t figure out what to do with. Dad’s awards galore: an inscribed rock mounted as a bookend, an SDG&E glass cap from a utility pole, a framed piece of carpet from the San Diego Civic Theater—all thank yous for a lifetime of public work . Someday, his great grandchildren may want this loot; in the meantime, the treasures rest in moisture-proof bins from Target.

Another conundrum is what to do with our family photos. You know the large framed ones? I tried to follow Kan-Mari’s rule of what “sparks joy” while “thanking” each piece, as I waded through the family history. I solved a space problem by inserting older versions of pictures behind the newer ones, creating a sort of evolutionary history like strata of the Grand Canyon. No doubt some photographer is slapping their head saying, “Noooooo!.” Who has room for this stuff? More importantly, each time we add a family member—child, grandchild, in-law—what happens to the picture before? Our family, like most, has seen its share of deaths and divorces.

Dale installed ceiling racks for the boxes, hooks for the bikes and tools. The garage began to look less like a dumping ground and more like a man cave. Okay, not quite. On to the next project—tackling the inside of the house.

An Outback for the Outback and The Easy Way to Buy a Car

On By Theresa Fowler-HarrisonIn buying and selling, car buying, costco, downsizing, memories, moving, retirement, rural town, Subaru, UncategorizedLeave a comment

It snowed that night and the next and the next. Christmas at the condo was cozy, our immediate family—daughters and grand baby opened presents around the tiny tabletop tree. Dale gave me a down bathrobe, one you might wear in Antarctica, but hey, he’d lived in the mountain cabin for the last month and knew firsthand how cold it got. Meghan gave us a framed painting of our old house—the one we still technically owned, as final documents were held up by the holidays. I cried when I saw the image. We owned a wonderful home in the Central Coast, and yet here we were moving to a great unknown, with lots of work ahead.

That afternoon we spent with extended family—aunts, uncles, cousins—together at my brother’s.  I reminded myself this was the reason for the move, to be close to family—all of them, all 30 plus of them as the family keeps growing. We collapsed on the bed later that night, and I instructed Jade the cat to let us sleep, like a cat follows any instructions.  We eventually fell asleep to the continual banging of cabinets as she explored the condo.

The day after Christmas, Dale and I made a date with the computer to find a backcountry vehicle, since our two old cars weren’t built for snow or ice. A friend suggested we buy through Costco, and it was the best decision ever. We narrowed our choices; test drove a Subaru or two to be certain, and settled on an Outback. Best part of ordering through Costco is you pre-select your vehicle (by doing your homework first), and then shop online. No dickering, no wheeling or dealing. The price is fixed. Costco tells you which local dealer has the vehicle, preps it, and draws up the paperwork. The entire transaction is complete in less than 15 minutes.

While we waited for our forest green Outback to be detailed, we picked up a perfect read in the waiting room, Coast to Canyons, a collection of hikes in San Diego County, detailing flora and fauna of assorted trails, including maps and directions. The book was one more thing we ordered before we left the dealer.

We could finally drive home to our house on the hill, blanketed under a foot of snow.new Outback for the outback

I stayed at the condo one more night, while Dale negotiated the traffic. Only 35 miles from the condo, but over 75 minutes of driving time—mostly sitting in traffic, as San Diegans streamed to the mountains in search of snow, something other than sand.

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Moving Day

On By Theresa Fowler-HarrisonIn buying and selling, champagne toasts, downsizing, Lake Cuyamaca, memories, moving, retirement, rural town, UncategorizedLeave a comment

After negotiating with the moving company, we agreed to dates—and the best (or cheapest) landed on Christmas Eve. At least we’d be in San Diego with our family, even though we couldn’t be at the big house. We would squeeze four adults (including our two daughters), two dogs and a cat in the 750 square foot condo. We are the fortunate. We have places to sleep.

The movers loaded the van over two days, drove in shifts to Southern California, and planned to arrive in Cuyamaca on the morning of Dec. 24. We vacationed in Monterey for our last night, then packed up our final precious cargo—our cat, who was fully drugged and stuffed into her cat carrier. The vet administered the perfect dose for the ten-hour drive, as Jade stirred just as I pulled into the condo parking lot. I opened the carrier, and she staggered out—intoxicated, disoriented, dragging one leg, probably asleep from long ride. Jade stumbled around her new surroundings—“Where the hell am I?” I can only imagine what was running through that crazy cat head. That night, no one slept much because the cat ran over our heads, under our beds, through the cupboards, inspecting every corner of the condo.

Early the next morning after a few fitful hours of sleep, Dale and I grabbed a country breakfast in Ramona, while monitoring the weather on our cell phones. Forecasters predicted snow on Christmas Eve; the approaching storms appeared as dark thick bands on our weather apps. This race was on! Packers needed to unload everything and back up our steep, very steep driveway before the first snowflakes drifted down. And so did we, as we lacked chains, snow tires, or four-wheel drive vehicles.approaching storm

Three burly guys met the two truck drivers—all five standard San Diegans, wearing appropriate beach attire—shorts, t-shirts, and Nikes, unprepared for temperatures below 50 degrees, but it was 40 degrees outside, the temperature dropping, the rain beginning. Since our house is at 5400 feet and has three flights of stairs, they warmed up quickly. By 4:30 pm, sunset at 4:50 pm, the body builder-packers brought up the last of the boxes. We generously tipped them, wished them well as the moving van struggled up the steep (Super Steep. Have I mentioned this before?) driveway and slid down the winding, now coated with black ice North Peak Road.

Dale leaned over the kitchen island; I sprawled across the dining room chairs, as we stared at the boxes to be unpacked. With our vaulted ceilings, the stacks stretched to infinity. Okay, 24 feet anyway. We needed to get home for Christmas, but not before we toasted our move. We popped the cork of the champagne bottle and each tossed back a short swig.  No idea which box held the glasses. That didn’t matter; we needed to get off the mountain. The rest of the bottle saved for later.champagne toasttoasting in plastic

Fire on our Mountain

On By Theresa Fowler-HarrisonIn bald eagles, Cedar Fire, controlled burns, downsizing, foreclosure, Lake Cuyamaca, memories, retirement, small town life, Uncategorized, wildlifeLeave a comment

I’ve been traveling for work and pleasure, and finally returned to our family home on Lake Cuyamaca. It’s an early fire season, and it seems earlier each year. When I taught biology, I joked that California has four seasons—winter, spring, summer, and fire. So, it’s mid-July with four uncontrolled burns in Southern California. When we bought this house, a rebuild after the Cedar Fire, we knew what we were getting into. We knowingly, willingly risked life on wilderness edge at whim of Mother Nature. Our house is surrounded by Cuyamaca State Park and Cleveland National Forest—and prime forest ready for a burn. Native Americans used fire to care for their lands. They understood. Our government is learning.

In fall 2003 when the Cedar Fire roared through San Diego County, we lived in the Monterey-Salinas area (another fire-prone area), and our oldest daughter enrolled as a freshman at San Diego State. We were new to this—sending kids off to college—and secretly delighted that Meghan visited her extended family of grandparents, aunts, uncles, or cousins on weekends. That November, a raging fire changed everything for thousands of San Diegans. Initially, SDSU cautioned students to stay inside as the fire hopped, skipped, and jumped canyons towards Lakeside and Santee, close enough to campus you could taste it. Ash swirled in the air coating cars and sidewalks, landing on lips and tongues of beachgoers miles away. Meghan’s grandparents picked her up, so she could escape the smoke. By the third day of burning, fingertips of flames licked nearby hills and Interstates 15 and 805. SDSU cancelled classes for the rest of the week.

A flare set by a lost hiker created the conflagration that took everything in its path. In the beginning, the Santa Ana winds pushed the inferno towards the Pacific Ocean, racing through dry scrub, sage, and Manzanita, scaling the tops of Eucalyptus trees. Then winds shifted, and the shore breeze blew hot embers in the opposite direction. That’s when our area of Cuyamaca went up in flames. It was a perfect firestorm of events—where nature and people converged in not a good way.  Under scant resources, fire agencies protected the town of Julian, home of 2600+ people; meanwhile, Mount Cuyamaca, Middle Peak, and our mountain, North Peak burned.  In the aftermath, amid the ashes of homes, once stately Sugar Pines, and wildlife, people pointed fingers of accusation. Over a decade later, people in the backcountry still point fingers.

On our unpaved fire road, Lower North Peak Way, just four of twenty houses survived the fire. If I hike further up the mountain, more empty plots with brick chimneys, china remnants, broken bits of glass, twisted metal exist than do rebuilds. Our house is in fact a rebuild. The people before us completed the house within five years of the fire, but walked away at the peak of the “real estate bubble”—another tragedy of circumstances.

During fall and winter, when black oaks are dormant, it’s difficult to tell a viable oak from a scarred skeleton of an oak. Some oaks wear a skirt of charred bark, yet leaf out in spring. This year, black oaks and pines that sprouted after the Cedar Fire stretch as tall as the dead trees. The forest is returning, and with it, wildlife. I’ve seen mountain lion scat and tracks, as well as raccoon, deer, coyote, bobcat. Scrub jays fight over the Supreme bird feed I buy from the BirdWatcher Store in town.  And, this spring, a resident bald eagle from neighboring Lake Cuyamaca perched on a utility pole on our property. I saw a glistening from our deck, grabbed binoculars, and sure enough, there he or she roosted. With each turn of its head, light beamed off its head–a signal that all is well.

 

Assorted Stuff and a Hot Punch Bowl

On By Theresa Fowler-HarrisonIn downsizing, heirlooms, memories, moving, retirement, Suburbia, UncategorizedLeave a comment

While Dale camped in our new home, I triaged through 35 years of stuff.  If I felt no connection to an item or I couldn’t remember where I got it or the story behind it, the item went to Goodwill, which thankfully took my piles and piles of junk. Good junk, though including White, Pfaff, and Viking sewing machines. Years earlier, I rescued the machines from defunct Home Ec classes, one per each daughter, but the machines sat silent in the garage, waiting for a young girl to create a masterpiece worthy of Project Runway, which of course never happened.

Goodwill attendants, God bless them, smiled as I handed them:

  • Boxes of empty mason jars—wide lids, small lids, half pints, pints, quarts, some Ball, some “real” Mason—during Christmas filled with Olallieberry jam, mixed berry jam, apricot or other apricot iterations, given to family and friends, then returned to be refilled with more deliciousness from our garden.
  • Boxes of 1970s college texts—both mine and Dales—and while many of our classes were the same, the texts and editions differed.
  • Pool toys and noodles and inflatables
  • Flower pots and vases
  • 4H memories of our kids’ animals—pairs of pig boots (each of our three girls raised pigs, each needed a pair of boots), pig feeder, a lamb box, lamb halter, lamb covers, sheers
  • Plastique—Tupperware I rarely used. The random lids and/or mismatched bottoms I tossed into the recycle bin, as well as my class notes from UCSD and UCLA, spirals upon spirals, folders upon folders of lesson plans I’d never use. Why did we hang on to this stuff for so long?

Then, there was the “Hot Punch Bowl”—

In 1990, our first year in Indian Springs, a sweet Romanian family lived across from us. Georgiana, the mother, and I became friends over recipes, her goulash for my Mexican torte or my carrot cake for her chocolate brownies. We commiserated over working parenting woes; she ran her own catering business and I taught high school. I learned a smattering of Romanian and she improved her nearly fluent English. We shared traditions; we celebrated Christmas, New Years, and other family parties together.  Their high school daughter became our go-to babysitter, and we encouraged Rosanna to speak Romanian to our small children.

Suddenly one Friday, we arrived home from work to find a large rental truck loading everything from their two-story home. Georgiana, the mother, said they needed to return quickly to Romania for family and personal reasons.  She seemed distraught and I told her I was sorry to see them go. Her parting gifts to me—a delicately embroidered tablecloth from her native country, and a punch bowl, and I gave her something, too, but I have no idea what it was. The house emptied quickly; by weekend’s end, Georgiana and her family gone. We exchanged a few Christmas cards and letters, eventually nothing.

For weeks, realtors poured in and out and hosted Open Houses; two months later, we had new neighbors. This newlywed couple eventually became our good friends, too, although we missed Claudius, Georgiana, Sergei, Florie, and Rosanna. Through the years, I thought of Georgiana and her family at each party, especially at Christmas or New Years, or whenever I pulled out the magnificent crystal punch bowl she gave me. A heavy, crystal mount, cut in the same intricate design, accompanied the fancy bowl, as well as dainty crystal cups and a ladle. Guests at our parties ooh’d and aah’d at the treasure. Somehow, it made the champagne punch on New Years or Sangria at summer parties taste much better.

It was nearly five years later, when Mike, our “new” neighbor, casually updated us on the people before them. I don’t recall how the conversation took such a turn, but I clearly remember the indictment he made of the previous owner, our friends, our “extended family.”

Mike—You heard about the people who owned this house, right?

Me—No, they haven’t written in a few years. I don’t know what happened to them. I only know they returned to Romania.

Mike smiled, which grew into a sort of chuckle, as he leaned over to prune their climbing roses. We often talked while gardening in the front yard—our house or theirs.

Mike—They’re on the lamb, they’re wanted.

Me—No, wait? What? No, seriously?

Mike—It was in the paper. Father’s wanted for embezzling, Mother’s wanted for stealing from her wealthy clients.

Me—

Actually, I don’t think I replied. Too stunned I suppose. Not these wonderful people, who escaped the regime in Romania for asylum in the United States. I reflected on their business, catering in a wealthy part of town, and the bowl bestowed on me. I may never know the “rest of the story,” but I know that bowl holds memories. I carefully packed each piece, then marked FRAGILE on all sides of the box. The moving company would handle this. It was worth the extra money.

Escrow Times Two

On By Theresa Fowler-HarrisonIn buying and selling, Cedar Fire, downsizing, foreclosure, Lake Cuyamaca, memories, moving, retirement, small town life, Suburbia, UncategorizedLeave a comment

Once we decided to move, we packed with a mission—daily Goodwill donations of books we read or never will, “beloved junk” including vases from flowers long gone and Mason jars of assorted sizes delivered to neighbors, texts sold back to CSU Monterey Bay for much less than we paid. My arbitrary goal—packing four boxes/day quickly added to twenty boxes stacked high in the garage—making our house seem spacious and the garage like a hoarder’s.

We worked with two government agencies, Fannie Mae since the house we were buying was a foreclosure, and the Veteran’s Administration for Dale’s V.A . Loan and both followed strict time lines and rules. Of course, the timelines and rules applied only to us, the buyers, since we’d submit immediately then wait days for any response. Buying a foreclosure and pursuing a veterans’ loan are not for the faint of heart.  Piles of documents multiplied over our dining room table; weekly extensions meant the notary became like our extended family.

In the meantime, we listed our Indian Springs home with Kevin and Linda who scheduled a showing day for realtors. The professional photographer made our house look so good. Shoot, why were we moving? After one day on the Multiple Listing Service, a steady parade of “lookee-loos” or “wanna-buys” drove past our home. Exactly what we would have done had we been in Julian, but we were 600 miles away. Open Houses seem passé these days, since serious buyers shop the internet. Five days later, we received a full-price offer and spare back-up offers. A huge relief for us, two retired teachers–not  independently wealthy–but that’s being redundant. No sooner had escrow opened on our Indian Springs home, when a thief took advantage of the listing and stole our new swing from the front yard. We bought that swing three months earlier, with plans for a “little library” and the hope that neighbors would feel welcome to sit and read. I felt sad and the theft left a bitter taste for the broader community, not our neighbors, but for the outsiders who knew we were moving—such a sad, sad way to leave.

Escrow closed on our mountain home mid-November, and twelve hours later, Dale drove ten hours in a truck with tools, his bike, random pieces of furniture, the dog, and towing his car. We were doing this! I remained in Indian Springs to finish packing, while he painted our new/used house. First task was picking the color, which we did simultaneously at two different Ace Hardware Stores, he in Alpine, me in Salinas. “Open Arms”—the easy favorite for the interior walls and he scaled the three stories, wearing climbing gear to reach the vaulted ceiling.

Dale “glamped” at our five star mountain home on an inflatable mattress, with a lamp, a radio, no TV, no computer.  His nightly activity—watching stars or burning of Middle Peak.  The prescribed burn on Middle Peak gave Dale a taste, literally, of what the Cedar Fire must have been like, as our house faced the scorched facade of the mountain. Fire trucks from different agencies—Rancho Cuyamaca State Park, Julian Fire, and Cal Fire monitored what most of California needs, fire. Scrub vegetation thrives on a good burn every few years. The Native Americans knew this, and managed their lands, with burns to clean out underbrush and expose soils. As I told my biology students, California has four seasons: winter, spring, summer, fire.

 

Memories of What’s Left Behind

On By Theresa Fowler-HarrisonIn downsizing, foreclosure, memories, moving, Pool Parties, remodeling, small town life, Suburbia, UncategorizedLeave a comment

Before launching into our “new/used” home, I want to remember what we left behind. The house on Indian Springs Road was supposed to be our forever home, the home where our children, grandchildren, and future great-grandchildren came for visits. Like in The Father of the Bride, our daughters’ wedding reception could be held in the backyard. In our retirement, we’d have raucous pool parties or quiet dinners enjoying the sunset on the surrounding hills. Our children, who learned to swim in the pool, could teach their children and they theirs. The fruit trees, the pomegranate, peach, and almond trees, we planted these past few years might yield bountiful harvests, and I’d make fancy jams. The play set in the far corner of the yard, the one Dale built on Christmas twenty-five years ago, would delight our grandchildren. These were my dreams, but life has a funny way with dreams and plans. Sometimes dreams come true, sometimes they don’t, and sometimes life presents a better scenario than ever imagined.

Our adult children flew our feathered nest, settling in San Diego, circling home once/year. They landed near their grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. At visits to my parents’ home, my girls slept in my old bedroom. So as our daughters embraced San Diego, it looked less likely they’d return to Salinas. My dreams, after all, were my dreams not theirs. Dale and I decided that a move south made sense, whether or not we closed on the mountain house, we were at peace. Sad at leaving our home, our friends, Indian Springs neighborhood, family at St. Joseph’s, but at peace.

Now, we turned to prep our Indian Springs house—this house needed to look as good as our loving feelings for it—but in reality we had neglected so much.  We ignored floors, foundation repair, exterior painting, and pool repair—all “big ticket” items, paying college tuition instead. How I wished we’d had money to pay for pool resurfacing and tile or better heater and pool pump, but life is choices and seeing Sam graduate with little college debt was the right decision for us. True to life’s irony, the pool contractor arrived for the pool redo on the official start of escrow on the mountain home.

When our kids were little, they swam in that little pool with no care about blue lips and toes, uncontrollable shivers, and green water, when chlorine levels dipped and algae bloomed. Our kids and their friends learned to swim in the tiny pool, not much bigger than a truck. Everything being relative, this was a “bare bones” pool installed by the previous owner. When we first moved there, the pool deck was a random collection of pavers connected by weeds.  A patchwork deck was an eyesore, a cosmetic problem, while the lack of a pool fence was a safety issue. The Monterey Fence Company heard my frantic cry, “I have two small children, and we’re moving in a week.”  Two days later, the workers completed the fence, but—blame it on my years of lifeguarding—we needed more–an alarm, the floating kind, the gate kind, the impenetrable kind, the kind with a direct link to the fire department. We settled on a gate alarm, plus an additional one for the back door. Ear piercing and louder than a bank’s burglar alarm, a screech warned everyone within a five-mile radius that the gate was open. It cost us over $500, a stretch for us, but it was the best $500 ever spent.

One Sunday afternoon five months after we moved in, and not fully unpacked, we threw a pool party. Parents partied inside, kids played outside. A few minutes into the party, the gate alarm sounded. One of the older kids managed to open the pool gate, but couldn’t shut off the alarm. Within seconds, parents tore out the backdoor to the bewilderment of the ten children, five under the age of five and non-swimmers. In that moment, the alarm paid for itself. Birthdays, graduations, retirements—twenty-five years of pool parties—and, thankfully, celebrations without accidents.

Habitat for Humanity and the Bedroom Set

On By Theresa Fowler-HarrisonIn bargains, downsizing, Habitat for Humanity, house hunting, memories, moving, remodeling, UncategorizedLeave a comment

Our last remodel was the kitchen of our Monterey-Salinas home. We chose the contractor, marked off the five-six week stretch when we’d live on fast food (hard for me since I love to cook), and thanks to friend, Cindy who’d survived the same experience, got tips on expediting the entire process. Her first suggestion was to pick out appliances, sink, flooring, etc. ahead of time and store them in the garage, so the contractor wouldn’t need to wait on materials. We picked tile, flooring, countertops; we kept our refrigerator and dishwasher to reduce costs. Cindy’s second suggestion of shopping at Habitat for Humanity helped us stay under cost and on time!

Habitat for Humanity is a win for everyone, especially the environment. The “restore” carries appliances, furniture, building materials, e.g. lighting fixtures, plumbing parts, you name it. Contractors drop off useable materials, and other contractors pick them up. Homeowners shop as well.  Some pieces are “gently used” or “pre-owned,” while other pieces are brand new, extras donated by builders. Little lands in the landfill, meanwhile proceeds benefit the homeless, who under supervision of Habitat for Humanity workers build their own houses. I picked a double convection oven for $250 and brand new, deluxe microwave for $25. We also purchased heavy oak double front doors for $400 total. Such steals.

On one of many trips to San Diego, we visited the local Habitat for Humanity restore store. This time we searched for furniture for our daughter’s small condo, and scored a mahogany bookcase with beautiful trim and an even more beautiful price of $50. As we perused the warehouse, a new arrival wrapped in plastic rested against a wall.  A Mission style, stunning, solid oak five piece bedroom set. The set included king-sized bed frame, large armoire with mirror, and two smaller side pieces in a light oak that coordinated perfectly with our Mission style house in Salinas. The price? Crazy amazing of $700 for all the five pieces. Total. I whipped out my checkbook, since I know about shopping at Habitat. Things come and go pretty quickly.

Clerk—“Today all furniture is half off. Lucky you.”

Me—“I get all this for $350?” I’m all about a bargain, but not at short-changing a non-profit. I couldn’t believe my fortune.

Clerk—“But you have to get this stuff outta here by tomorrow, since we have more shipments coming in.”

Okay, this now involved work. Dale called local truck rentals, and the next day we loaded everything home to Salinas. Even with the $300 cost of the truck rental, this bedroom set was worth ten times that.

Funny thing is we moved everything, all five pieces, back to San Diego three months later.

Inheritance Part II–Chandelier Changes

On By Theresa Fowler-HarrisonIn chandelier, heirlooms, inheritance, memories, moving, retirement, UncategorizedLeave a comment

Kristy helped me from the garage floor, and we stared at the box and the chandelier. Since the box had been tucked in a far corner of the garage, I guessed Dale placed it there to protect it. Thing is he forgot about it and I didn’t know about it. The chandelier sat for two decades, wrapped in bathroom rugs from my grandmother’s house. Now, despite a film of dust and spider webs, it cast dancing prisms everywhere we looked. I laughed and cried at the irony. Even if twenty years ago I’d known, we couldn’t have afforded to hang the chandelier.

I spent the rest of that day searching the internet for chandelier repair. Since the chandelier was over 50 years, it qualified as an antique, not your standard hanging lamp. I had few options. Next morning as soon as the store opened, I brought it to Lloyd’s of Monterey. The lighting technician checked over the chandelier, no longer wrapped in carpet, but in the same cardboard box. He hesitated. I imagined he didn’t want another project, especially this one.

“It’s going to cost you over $500, maybe more, to fix the broken arm, rewire and replace the plug, and for ‘dressing.'”

He paused and smiled, “You can buy another chandelier for the cost of repairing this one. Have you looked at Home Depot?” He was missing the point. I hoped he was joking, since Lloyd’s sells crystal chandeliers.

“This belonged to my grandmother. I don’t care about the cost. I want it fixed, so I can hang it in my house.”

He reached in to touch some of the crystals. “Okay, well, I’m not sure we’ll be able to fix that broken arm. What color wire do you want? You have choices.”

And the discussion continued. I learned about dressing or how the strands hang, grounds and wires, arms. “Well, when it’s finished it’ll be worth as much as some of our more expensive models in the store. It’s going to take a while. I can’t start on this right away, so if you find a replacement arm on the internet that should save us some time.”

I went to work on my assignment, delivering the replacement arm the following week. A month passed then two, then two and half. I was anxious to see the finished product. No matter that I had waited twenty years already. In the meantime, I mentioned nothing to Dale. I wanted this to be a surprise.

Finally, the day arrived. I had a vision. I would move the existing Italian-style chandelier above our dining table to the master bedroom above our bed. Nana’s crystal chandelier would hang in the dining room, as it should have, long ago. And I hoped the electrician, obviously not me, could finish before Dale returned from work.

For two months, we enjoyed the light fixtures in their new locations. Then, we called the electrician again—this time to remove and repack the lamps; we were moving to Julian. No way was I leaving these pieces behind.