Inheritance Part II–Chandelier Changes

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.

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.

 

 

Inheritance–Part I

The sun shown in the garage and scattered the prisms everywhere—floor, ceiling, walls. I sat down and cried. I had no idea. For 20 years, I assumed this cherished heirloom went to my aunt or cousins.

For my Grandmother Alice’s 40th wedding anniversary, my grandfather gifted her with a dazzling crystal chandelier. It hung above their small kitchen table, beside their galley kitchen in their tiny apartment–an exquisite touch of elegance in their modest home. Six strands of crystal necklaces linked six crystal sconces. From each sconce, dripped crystal tear drops, with a large crystal pendant in the center. When sun shone through their apartment windows, masses of crystals scattered prisms, rainbows of varying sizes on the ceiling, walls, and floor. Meals at my grandparents seemed like dining in a fancy restaurant beneath a chandelier and with her amazing recipes. Her legendary chef skills, such as curried chicken with apples, raisins and chutney, kept her family alive during the Great Depression, and every holiday after, family relished her specialties of apple pie, mince-pie, and pumpkin pie.

Years later, I was a harried mom of three young kids and working full-time, when my grandmother died. Her funeral was a family reunion of sorts, with my aunt and cousins flying in from Seattle, and we celebrated my Grandmother’s life over pasta and fine wine at her favorite restaurant. Everyone had a favorite Nana story and recipe to share, like comfort food for the whole family. The thing I missed most was our Sunday afternoon phone calls. Those weekly phone calls usually happened while I stirred a pot of stew or spaghetti and Nana dispelled cooking advice, among other things. That Christmas, a few weeks after her death, we received boxes of her belongings—a golden tea-pot (a gift from her wealthy friend), paintings of birds, bird statues, jackets, dresses, and pieces of costume jewelry. The massive cardboard boxes that held my inheritance provided hours of entertainment for our kids, who found an empty wardrobe box could be used in many ways. So much for Christmas gifts. Why did we spend so much, when empty boxes worked?

Fast forward, twenty years later. My parents passed and I received more inheritance boxes. This time, our adult children were gone, but our garage could hold only so much stuff. Time to purge—my first retirement task. I poured through boxes upon boxes stacked high in the garage. Most were toys and dolls, athletic trophies from swimming, volleyball, gymnastics, and their recent college texts. “Hey, Mom, I don’t need this right now, but might use it later. Can you hold on to it for a while?” So, we had boxes marked with Meghan, Sam, and Allie. I made four piles earmarked for trash, Goodwill, eBay, or for Kristy who wanted discards for her art classes.

After a solid week of purging, Kristy and I reached the far corner of the garage. A heavy unmarked box, tucked at an angle, rested precariously atop smaller boxes. Spider webs, by either black widow or brown recluse spiders (no doubt—did I mention I used to teach biology?) encased the entire box, so we stepped back as it crashed to the floor. Kristy watched as I carefully peeled back the top—ready to stomp on any arachnid. This job was not for the weak. Inside was a rolled carpet that I didn’t recognize, but beneath that was the chandelier. The sun shown in the garage and scattered the prisms everywhere—floor, ceiling, walls. I sat down and cried. I had no idea. For 20 years, I assumed this cherished heirloom went to my aunt or cousins.

 

Hiking the Paper Trail

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?

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

Is this house going to be too much work? After little sleep, we decided to go back and look at the house again.

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”

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.

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.

 

The Journey Begins

Join us on our retirement adventure of fixing a foreclosure in a rural town and taming the raw land in Julian, CA.

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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