Category: small town life

Beyond the River Fire

On By Theresa Fowler-HarrisonIn Cal Fire, cancer, Fire ecology, firefighting, hiking, Monterey, moving, Salinas, small town life, Uncategorized, wildlife3 Comments

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 reverence 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!

On By Theresa Fowler-HarrisonIn moving, retirement, rural town, small town life, UncategorizedLeave a comment

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.

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.

 

Where to Begin

On By Theresa Fowler-HarrisonIn downsizing, foreclosure, Lake Cuyamaca, moving, remodeling, retirement, rural town, small town life, UncategorizedLeave a comment

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

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.

Hiking the Paper Trail

On By Theresa Fowler-HarrisonIn downsizing, foreclosure, house hunting, Lake Cuyamaca, memories, moving, retirement, rural town, small town lifeLeave a comment

The ten-hour drive back to Monterey-Salinas provided ample time to talk and plan. If Dale and I were buying, we needed to act quickly. Julian Realtor Dennis F. explained we had 24 hours to decide on the house or risk losing it. The window of opportunity, per Fanny Mae rules on foreclosures, stipulated first bids went to buyers who would reside in the house, followed by bids of investors, who could use the property in other ways. Monday at noon was our deadline. The list price of $440,000 was tenable for us, and a perfect retirement place, i.e. no mortgage, but contingent on proceeds from the sale of our other home. We discussed this with Dennis. Thank goodness realtors work on weekends.
Us—“Do you know how many offers are in place?”
Dennis—“There is only one I know of.”
Us—“Should we bid over the list price?”
Dennis—“Depends on how much you want this place.”
Then Dennis recommended “bidding a little over,” yet in line with the price per square foot of homes in the area. I saw the look on Dale’s face and knew he was mentally calculating the cost. Neither of us are gamblers, but this time we would be. I proposed $10,000 over, Dale pushed for $20,000, we settled in the middle. We figured we had little to lose in this “bidding war.” No, actually, worst case would be we get the Julian house, don’t sell our other home, and have to carry two mortgages. That would suck. Did I mention we are retired high school teachers and not millionaires?
Next phone call en route to Salinas was to our friend and Coldwell Banker Realtor, Linda M. Linda and I shared pregnancies and babies 31 years earlier. Back then (and sadly, even now), there was no pregnancy leave, we accrued “sick leave.” So, while we strolled with our new babies, we explored options as new moms who needed additional income. Linda left banking to pursue real estate; I stayed in teaching. I knew Linda was successful; her smiling face appeared in papers and on grocery shopping carts. We agreed to meet at our house on Tues. In the meantime, I posted a picture of our house for sale by owner, and asked friends to share on Facebook and other social media. Since we bought and sold our last homes by ourselves, we figured we could do it again, and maybe, just maybe, we’d get an offer before we signed a contract with Linda.
Arriving home, we faced the daunting task of dismantling 26 years of living in the same house. I looked around—so many memories and started to cry.
Tell me again, why were we moving?

 

 

Sleepless Second Night

On By Theresa Fowler-HarrisonIn Cedar Fire, downsizing, foreclosure, house hunting, Lake Cuyamaca, moving, remodeling, retirement, rural town, small town life, UncategorizedLeave a comment

We hardly slept that night, tossing and turning over our many questions. Should we bid on the house? What if we get the house? What if we don’t get the house? Are we moving too quickly? Should we sell our home after 26 years? Is Julian the right place to retire? Is this house going to be too much work? After little sleep, we decided to go back and look at the house again.

This time, we took a different route–Interstate 8 through Alpine and Descanso–and marveled at the near continuous Rancho Cuyamaca State Park. The side door to the house was unlocked, so we “broke in” as we did the day before. We noticed more things needing repair: peeling paint, broken cement fiberboard, ugly tile, overgrown trees and shrubs, and of course, the steep, steep–10% at least steep–driveway. I imagined driving in rain, sleet, or snow. Yikes. We’d need another car, four-wheel drive for sure. Then we saw the sun shining on Lake Cuyamaca.
In the sun room and living room, Dale practically swooned over the fans, decorated with antlers and a chain of dangling bear claws. What a guy. The house hollered “man-cave,” it screamed wilderness. I could live with antlers and bear claws, but the other fans not so much. On one bedroom ceiling hung a tropical fan with faux palm fronds, on another bedroom ceiling a modernist stainless steel model that resembled a UFO–both strange fixtures in a mountain cabin. Fans hung in every room, including the laundry room; we deduced the house must swelter in the summer. No air conditioning, but at 5400 feet, how hot can it possibly get? Then we watched planes taking off from the San Diego Airport and boats sailing in the harbor.
The living room’s fireplace of beautiful stone work and mantle was set with reddish grout. Not my choice of colors, until I realized the fireplace reflected the rocks and soil surrounding the house. I liked the open concept living room, dining room, and kitchen; I didn’t like the custom range hood coated in grease–more work to be done, while replacing it was a pricey option. Then we stared at the haze of Catalina and San Clemente Islands on the horizon.
The master bedroom with en suite master bath rivaled five-star hotel rooms–the super-sized shower supported by a multitude of jets, a whirlpool spa, walk in closet, and the “piece de resistance”– a fireplace that opened to both the master bedroom and bath. The tile around the fireplace needed replacing; the red flocked wallpaper needed stripping—both cosmetic. No vanities or medicine cabinets in any bathrooms–more expenses to add to the growing list. Then we saw Mt. Laguna to the east and Middle Peak of Rancho Cuyamaca State Park to the south from the bedroom windows.

We inspected the perimeter of the house, careful not to twist an ankle on the rocky path. How was this house ever constructed? It emerged from rocks and boulders that dotted the landscape. The piers supporting the wrap-around deck appeared in good condition; well, except for two or three, those piers and beams needed structural engineers, not us. Every ten feet or so, the blackened trunk of a burned conifer told the story of the Cedar Fire that blazed through this mountain. Other archeological remnants e.g. cement foundations, rebar, pottery fragments, painted the sad picture of that fire that destroyed lives and homes in 2003. We could only guess what happened here. Then we saw the expanse of the Cleveland National Forest and the Pacific Ocean beyond.
We were sold.

Like on “House Hunters”

On By Theresa Fowler-HarrisonIn downsizing, house hunting, moving, retirement, rural town, small town life1 Comment

On a whim (like how our youngest daughter came to be), my husband Dale and I drove to Julian. We were visiting from the Monterey-Salinas area, and spending time with our new grand baby in San Diego. That Thursday in September, we drove to the mountains, an hour drive from the city. Fall was in the air (which in San Diego means air temp was low 70s, water temp low 60s), it was apple season, and the mountains were calling.

I hadn’t seen the town of Julian since the 1970s, when as a break from studies at U.C. San Diego, I traveled with friends. During summer vacations in college, I also lifeguarded at the Girl Scout camp in the mountains, but four decades passed since I’d visited. We strolled the half-mile block of the downtown area, perused the antique shops, sampled spicy snacks at the local cider shop, read listings of houses for sale posted on the window of Julian Realty. That did it. The prices in the mountains spanned the spectrum from million dollar homes to cheap lots (under 30 G). Our dream of buying a place in the mountains could happen here, yet until that point, moving was not on our radar.

We lived in a suburban home of 4 bedrooms, 2 1/2 baths, in the central coast of California, perfect for our family of 5, but now we were 2 (not counting the furry children). We hoped the rooms would refill with children and grandchildren, but that happened only once or twice/year at Thanksgiving and Christmas. Most of the family was in San Diego and when they visited places, it wasn’t to the Central Coast; they expected us to come there.

Dennis F., owner of Julian Realty, provided us a list of homes. While I read the summaries and checked out the stats for the homes in our price range, Dale checked Zillow. There it was–our future home.

“Can we see this one?”

Dennis checked the Zillow listing and we agreed to rendezvous at the Lake Restaurant. The house listed in foreclosure, with 24 hours left before Fanny May released the home to investors. Dennis drove the steep–very steep–road, with a steep–very, very steep driveway that led to the house, followed by a steep stairway to the front door. The realtor lock-box wouldn’t open with the code, so Dale walked around looking for another way in and found the side door unlocked.

A quirky, but stunning floor-plan, with large picture windows facing the right directions to capture Lake Cuyamaca to the beaches–we entered the first floor of sleeping quarters. Up stairs (yes, more stairs) led to the living room, kitchen, dining room, sun room, with views that spanned from Catalina Island to the San Diego Harbor and downtown. Warm wood floors, black granite counters, stainless steel appliances in place, but missing vanities and some light fixtures–all cosmetic work that we could do. The interior paint, a faded camouflage color, covered the walls, and the master included flocked paisley wallpaper I hadn’t seen since childhood. The exterior paint mirrored the interior, a light gray-green, sort of faded avocado from the 1960s–who chose these colors, anyway? I could see why this listing “sat” on the market for a few years.

We left the foreclosure, contemplating the views, as Dennis showed us two other homes in different parts of Julian. One house in Harrison Park, at the end of a meandering one lane road that stretched for miles, had an even “quirkier” floor plan, as though designed like the Winchester House with rooms randomly added here and there. The other, a desperate fixer-upper in Pine Hills necessitated major remodeling, and I felt tired just thinking about how much. Both homes required more work than the foreclosure.

We left Dennis and went for pie–that’s what people do in Julian. So, over pie and coffee, albeit on the show it’s wine and appetizers, we discussed the three houses. Selling our home in Monterey-Salinas would enable us buy outright in Julian. No mortgage, such a sweet idea. Listing the pros and cons of each house, and minutes later, the pie wasn’t finished, but we knew. Even if we have a few years in that crazy view house, that was the one for us.

 

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The Journey Begins

On By Theresa Fowler-HarrisonIn downsizing, moving, retirement, rural town, small town life2 Comments

What a wild journey this has been. We are fortunate retirees, decidedly middle class (no Kardasians) who sold our suburban home to move to a rural community of 160 (counting us) to a house that was in foreclosure with few custom features and many missing parts.

We chose not to follow the usual path of retirement. We chose a house that needs work–lots and lots of work–and a land that is raw. We guess that we have 10 years to “tame the land” and finish the house, so this is a blog about our great adventure.

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