Beyond the River Fire

Although this blog is about our move and relocation to San Diego backcountry, I realize now how much my heart still resides north of here. These past few days, the mountains of Salinas and Monterey, or the Santa Lucia range, are on fire. Our old neighborhood is evacuating. Friends in the yellow zone, or the evacutation warning zone, are packing up. The Monterey Zoo is relocating animals. And I feel guilty because I am conflicted.

A part of me celebrates fire as an important part of nature (some plants, such as sequoias, need high heat to regenerate), but another part of me fears losing a home and everything in it. I suppose firefighters must feel the same–a mixture of excitement and reference for the untamed beast. I miss our home of thirty-some years, but I celebrate where we live now. We are blessed, and yet. And yet, I feel sad. I feel sad for the neighborhood, our friends, our old home. If you live long enough in California, you know that this land is meant to burn. Our new house is a rebuild from the Cedar Fire in 2003. The hills of Salinas will not be as verdent as they once were, at least for a season, so I remind myself to just breathe and wait. The flowers and greenery will return.

As of the latest report on 8/20/2020, nearly 80% of “my” Toro Park has burned. I cherish memories of hikes through the years (decades, really), and the views from Eagle Peak, Mount Ollason, the Airplane Trail, Cougar Ridge, and Simas Peak. On Eagle Peak with my three girls and friends, we watched two behemoth cows ram their massive skulls into each other, like live colliding bumper cars. We ran and hid behind some trees, fully expecting anyone of us to be their next target. After all, turkeys in the Sycamore picnic area were known to chase people. Who is to say that cattle might mistake us for free hay?

Many times, I hiked alone, if no one else was available, but I always carried my hiking sticks, especially helpful in encounters with mountain lions or snakes. On East Cougar Ridge, one afternoon with my daughter, a three foot rattler warned us and then slowly made its way to the side of the trail. As a biologist, I was intrigued with its coloring, rattle size, and girth. I gave him/her wide berth, and tried to capture him on camera while he slithered away. I excitedly said to my daughter, “Isn’t he beautiful?” only to find she had sprinted back down the hill and never heard a word I spoke.

I often hiked the back side of Toro, off Harper Canyon, with Sandy and our dog-BFFs, Nika and Sky. My dog Sky, a Heintz-57 Variety of a dog, hunted ground squirrels, and there were a few. When we returned home, Sky slept soundly for hours, dreaming of missed opportunities. Nika, a very vocal Alaskan husky, felt her calling was herding cattle. The poor dogs never understood why sometimes they could run wild and free, and then other times, when cows were nearby, we kept a tight leash.

The airplane trail, usually overgrown with poison oak, no doubt is in the fire zone. Many times, I needed Tecnu for days following a hike in that ravine. According to fire fighter Rick, the 1970s fatal crash of the small two-passenger plane, triggered a fire, which likely was the last time it burned. Mountain doves would flit among the tall oaks. Spanish moss concealed nearby predatory birds, like red tailed hawks, who swooped down and plucked their next meal, some poor unsuspecting dove, from the sky.

I remember conversations that accompanied long hikes. One special hike, an eight-miler at least with my best friend, Wendy, took us up Cougar Ridge overlooking Indian Springs and Las Palmas. Past the springs, we headed northeast to Valley View Peak, which overlooks the valley floor (appropriately named) and spotted our homes, looking like tiny match books far down the hill. Black Mountain casts its massive shadow early over our houses–by 3:30 pm in fall and winter–and so our hikes began in morning, by 8 am at least. As we wove our way down the switchbacks, past thick stands of manzanita as far as we could see, I recall saying to Wendy, “Boy, does this stuff need to burn.” Most of the manzanita plants towered like oaks above our heads, indicating they had not seen a fire in decades.

On that particular hike, we discussed hopes and dreams for our daughters–all the same ages and all going through the same boyfriend/girlfriend drama and work angsts of twenty-somethings. I remember the exact place where Wendy told me her cancer had metastized to her spine. She didn’t know how much longer she had. She buoyed me with “I can live a long time with meds, like a diabetic.” And “You’re a good Mom, you know,” when she knew I worried, as did she, about our girls. Ever the nurse. Ever the caregiver. The fires are burning and I am crying, but it’s all about the memories.

Wendy died August 18th. My mom died the very next day, and for some reason, I don’t believe that was a coincidence. My last words to Wendy were, ” I love you,” and those were the same for my mom. We all have expiration dates. My mom’s date was longer–she died in her mid-80s, Wendy–she died at 57, far too young, like a peach that is ripe for just days. Five years ago this week, I lost both my Mom and my best friend, and now I feel as though I am losing my mountains, too, but not really. The mountains have their own times, too. They need to burn. A reminder that everything eventually returns to ashes. For now, as long as I can remember, I will hold on to “my Toro Park,” and all the good times it gave me.

It’s Shopping Time!

When we moved from Salinas-Monterey, we left behind lots of furniture. We sold some things, but mostly donated to Goodwill or to people who were willing to cart items away. A couch, going back years (okay, at least a decade or maybe two) and which we hardly ever used, went away. Actually, it followed our youngest daughter to college, but returned as they often do. Why did it take so long to part with it? I remember feeling a twinge of embarrassment at the few times people sat in the darn thing and they nearly fell to the floor. The cushions had long lost oomph, its arms were thread bare. Yet, it occupied a corner of the house we seldom used, except when we had lots of people and there was nowhere else to sit, and then we needed it. As we pulled off the pillows and cushions, I found hidden treasures, like one of our girl’s paper dolls sweetly tucked, deep inside the couch, and a Polly Pocket or two.

Dale’s baby grand piano, his first retirement project of finishing, polishing, and tuning an 1884 church piano, never played as well as he liked. He gave that away to a family who promised to give lessons to their kids.

Our family room sectional, which I never liked–that’s another story–went to a young couple, who made multiple trips to our house, since the beast could not be tamed into their mini-van.

We held a garage sale, making a few hundred dollars, but really saving us trips to the donation center or the dump. Away went the Tupperware, random vases, place mats, and table cloths for tables we no longer had. We dumped pool toys, broken chairs (why did we keep this stuff?), and books, lots and lots of books from five college-educated people, who kept textbooks (most from that last quarter or semester), all thinking we will need this information some day.

So, by the time we arrived at our new home, we had few furnishings. The bedrooms sets and a few end tables traveled, but the rest stayed behind. Our first month, we watched TV, while camped out on the floor in sleeping bags. First task, aside from unpacking, was shopping for love seats and sofas for the family room and living room. This was fun. This, I could do. Shopping is my forte.

One of the unique features of our new home is the octagonal living room, which has stunning views of the ocean and lake. No standard couch fits these windows, so my solution was two large chairs and a love seat. I spent days exploring online sites, since we were snowbound, and well, shopping for furniture is easier this way. We decided to go with Macy’s, who could deliver within two weeks or once the snow melted, whichever came first.

The leather arms on the chairs and love seat are substantial, like additional seats, so after years of telling my children “to get off the arms and sit on the sofa,” I bought furniture that works. That Thanksgiving, family relaxed on the chairs, the love seat, and on the arms, enjoying the fire. Score one for me.

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

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.

20161226_171534

Moving Day

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

Assorted Stuff and a Hot Punch Bowl

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.

Where to Begin

Dale’s work on our mountain home—where to start—on a place that sat untouched for seven years? Seven seasons of uncontrolled plant growth, seven years of hurricane winds that stripped paint and battered siding, seven years of rodents and spiders who made a home in our home, seven seasons of neglect inside and out made for an extensive list.

Dale first tackled the inside painting. This, and the removal of the red, paisley flocked wallpaper a la 1960s, kept him busy while I prepped our Indian Springs home.  A golden knotty pine framed doors and windows of the entire house and our choice of “Open Arms”—a soft, mellow yellow, almost a butter color, blended deliciously. I was relieved when I received the picture, after the fact, of the finished vaulted ceiling and Dale in complete climbing gear, minus the helmet which he claimed he removed to take the picture.

Dale in climbing gear

Before we could enjoy this house, the basics, e.g. solar panels for electricity required priming. While workers installed a new inverter, Dale focused on the inside of the house. The showers and tubs drained slowly or not at all, so plumbers labored on that—basically, calcium and other mineral deposits clogged the house after years of disuse. A “water softener” guy worked on the water softener. A “propane” guy restored and refueled the gas tank. Our purchase of the deluxe home warranty paid off with the dishwasher and oven, two of the many appliances that hadn’t been tested or used in years, and needed fixing.

Finally, November can be an Indian summer of scorching temperatures and raging wildfires, or as happened last year, an El Nino of rains and floods. A flood, not one or two, more like five floods, soaked the boxes that survived the trek from Indian Springs to our mountain home. Between stripping, nailing, painting, and caulking, Dale “squeegeed” the garage of the torrents of water that flowed down our practically precipitous driveway, and just one more problem we faced.

 

 

Escrow Times Two

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

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.

Preparing to Sell

Three days and three sleepless nights later, we heard from our realtor that “Fanny Mae” accepted our offer.  We only had to secure financing, sell our home, pack, move, and unpack. Easy, right?

Buying or selling a home is completed primarily by fax or email, so we stayed in Salinas and began packing. First task—Gathering boxes by daily trips to the Salinas High book room, where Ms. Patricia gladly unloaded her extras. Ms. Patricia runs a “tight ship” of books for 2500 students, while high on her stilettos, but that’s another story.  UPS delivers daily to the high school, so we had a good start on boxes. Second task—picking an agent. We posted a shot of our home; cast a description on FB to see if we could garner any nibbles. Sure enough by the next day, a parade of cars “drove by” (lookey-loos) and a realtor-neighbor knocked on our door with a portfolio of impressive materials. Gloria seemed young and eager, yet we had a scheduled meeting with Linda, our friend of 30 plus years. Gloria’s bubbly enthusiasm buoyed us—“This house will sell fast. It’s in a great neighborhood with excellent schools.”  And she suggested a price, which wowed us.

When Linda and her partner Kevin arrived, both long-time Coldwell Banker Realtors, their assessment was not as ebullient as Gloria’s.  A quick look at our house through their eyes, and we began to see things we neglected over the years, especially, the mismatched floors, such as medium oak in the living room, lighter oak in the master bedroom, bamboo in the kitchen, plus peel and stick oak in the kids rooms, the latter retained black marker drawings from when our kids were young.  A few years earlier (okay, probably much earlier—but not more than a score), Dale ingeniously installed a “white board” on their bedroom wall, actually a white Formica countertop turned upside down, so our kids could express themselves; problem was containing their creativity, as it overflowed onto floors and doors. At some point, Sam, our youngest, drew a beautiful piece of art—stick figures really—on the back of the garage door. I considered nailing a frame around it, and then rethought I shouldn’t reinforce her behavior.  Whatever, I never had the heart to repaint or repair, so the floors held our kids’ artwork intact. At least, Allie’s blue room, during her blue period, was now white. During Allie’s high school years, she painted the entire room including ceiling, the bluest sky-blue with floating white clouds. It was her room. Since it was too blue for my taste, I kept her door closed. When Sam, our youngest, took over that room, she repainted it.

M’s room reflected her taste—the only room in the house with carpet—and not surprising a blue color, had soft yellow painted walls. M. moved away for college and grad school, never returned except for random visits, daughter #2 followed, then finally the youngest. Bedroom #1, formerly the blue room, became Dale’s office, the middle bedroom, which all three girls occupied at different times, morphed into my office, or storage shed—depending on my projects, while bedroom #3 the guest room. With our fledglings flown the nest, time for the parents to move on.

Habitat for Humanity and the Bedroom Set

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.