This Old House - Part 2

 

We were committed. Our offer and deposit had been accepted and we were “pre-approved” for a loan. Next steps were getting an appraisal, a pest and home inspection, filling out the loan paperwork, and waiting. Agonizing waiting. Everything had to go through, we had no options. It was either Spring Street or a campsite under a bridge.

The pest report only called out water damage from a leaking shower pan in the downstairs bathroom, my bathroom. The whole house inspection was a horror story, pages filled with diagrams, red arrows, underlined passages, and exclamation points. We decided to ignore it. The roof was sound and that was what we needed: a roof over our heads. The house had stood for 131 years. Realistically, Colleen needed only 30 more. Inexplicably, but fortuitously, the appraisal came in where we needed it.

I’m not sure what “pre-approved is supposed to mean – in our case it meant nothing. We completed piles of paperwork, submitted them, and then the lender wanted proof my retirement income would continue until my death. I provided statements demonstrating it was adequately funded, 1099’s, photocopies of bank accounts, and nothing seemed to satisfy. They wanted a statement declaring my employer promised to pay until my death. I had no such thing, but I did have a 122-page document describing IBM’s several pension plans, although it did not specify which was my plan. I submitted it. I’m sure no one read it or understood it, I certainly hadn’t. But the lenders gave in and approved the loan.

The clock was ticking, we were on tenterhooks, but we were ready, all documents were signed and delivered to the title company. The seller just had to submit his package and escrow could close. But he didn’t. He suffered a stroke on a Friday afternoon and lay in a coma on life support in the hospital. He was single, his only relative was his 86-year-old feeble mother. If he died, we were doomed. Our only hope was that he would live and that his mother could quickly gain guardianship. Prayer warriors were summoned, and he did live. Monday morning his mother applied for guardianship; the court was cooperative and rushed it through. And we exhaled. The deal closed; we gained title, for better or worse.

Colleen moved in immediately, just as her lease was running out. The work on the shower had not been completed, so my move was delayed. However, my landlord graciously extended my occupancy a couple of weeks. The bathroom repairs proceeded. Tile was removed from the floor and the bottom 12 inches of the shower wall to access and remove the shower pan. The demolition revealed that the shower pan was intact, the pest report was erroneous, and there had been no need to replace it. However, it was replaced, and the stall was now ready for use.

Because the old toilet in the same bathroom was too low for my comfort, it was removed, and a new slightly taller model installed.

In the meanwhile, dear friends painted my bedroom. The oppressive dark green wall and the ceiling now soothed me with a beautiful shade of sky blue, complemented by the soft pink of the remaining walls. It looks clean and gentle, like a baby’s room, making me feel safe and warm.

Just as we were unpacking and settling in, a letter arrived from our homeowner’s insurance company demanding we make several repairs to keep our policy in force, or it would be cancelled July 7, just two months away. We were told our decayed front steps, porch, and the balustrade that was held together with chicken wire had to be replaced; the broken stained glass in the front door fixed, some rotten siding dealt with, and the dead ivy and tree limbs overhanging the house removed. Time was short and so were our finances.

Fortunately, Colleen was on sabbatical from her job at Blue Shield. When she was not working at getting settled, she was engaged in volunteer work with the homeless of our community. Many of the unhoused men were highly skilled and willing workers. They became our labor pool.

70-year-old Floyd rebuilt our front stairs, porch, and balustrade. He wasn’t homeless, but he was desperately impoverished and eager to earn some money. Summer heat was merciless, temperatures reached 110 degrees, often too hot to work outdoors, especially for someone his age and with a history of TIAs. The quality of Floyd’s work was beyond reproach, but the pace was agonizingly glacial. I harbored an unspoken fear he would suffer heat stroke before finishing the job. We kept him hydrated and fed, and we prayed. And he delivered.

 As we were prioritizing home repairs, sewage seeped into our basement. The insurance company demands had to take a back seat to this emergency. The drains were snaked out, but only a trickle made it through the system. After days of trying all sorts of chemical and poking maneuvers, it was apparent that the sewer pipes were ruptured somewhere along the line. It seemed obvious that roots of the huge sycamore tree lurking in the front yard had invaded the system.

Again, Colleen employed a couple of her acquaintances -- skilled handymen with strong backs and empty wallets. Digging out the leaking sewer line was a nasty job. We soon dubbed the hole in the front yard the poop pit. The effort involved much more than simply digging; roots as big as the largest limbs overhead had to be sawed through and removed – some weighed as much as 100 pounds. And there were large rocks as well. The ancient terra cotta pipe was a shambles.

We sparingly used the toilets. Water from the dishwasher, shower, and laundry flowed through easily. On a daily basis, it was necessary to access the broken pipe in the poop pit and use a hose to flush the sewage into the main.

The digging began at a point near the front edge of our property. The pipe went under the sidewalk and joined the main somewhere in the middle of the street. The city of Placerville informed us we were responsible for everything up to the main, even though it ran through city property. So, as work progressed, the poop pit became a poop tunnel, all excavated manually in the summer heat. Six feet deep and twice as long, the hole could accommodate a couple of bodies. Possibly insurance adjusters. After two months of living with an open sewer, the main was reached; roots, rocks, and terra cotta shards were removed, and PVC pipe was installed.

In the meanwhile, work continued on the insurance company’s demands. Rotten siding was replaced, the stained-glass window repaired, dead ivy still clung to the house and the tree limbs of the evil sycamore tree drooped over the roof. The house needed paint – the new porch and replaced siding were bare, the ivy destroyed the paint, and the house was an icky shade of dirty yellow, like a mixture of mustard and mud. This time we called in the pros. They had the scaffolding and ladders needed to reach 30 feet where the ivy clung. Days of scraping and power washing preceded the application of the beautiful sea-foam green paint. Dark green, white, and a burnt orange front door accented the decorative Victorian details that made the house worthy of Placerville’s Registry of Historic Homes.

On July 4^th, just 3 days short of the insurance company’s deadline, the tree in the front yard came down. Again, a couple of Colleen’s underemployed acquaintances signed on to the job. Bob was a certified arborist who had difficulty managing his life and his business. But he had tools, skill, and the need for cash. Until that day, I had never thought of tree felling as a spectator sport, but I was enthralled. The removal was challenging. Picket fences extended north and south from the trunk; immediately to the east was the sidewalk and busy Highway 49. Overhead utility wires were laced through the heavily leaved branches and the house with many windows was due west. The tree had to come down limb by limb with Bob climbing into the highest reaches more than 30 feet off the ground. While still on the tree, limbs had to be cut with a chainsaw into small enough pieces to be carefully lowered with pulleys and ropes, threading through the utility wires. And all of this in 110-degree heat. The tension and anticipation of horror I experienced evoked my memories of the bull fight I had seen in Mexico City. Like the bull, the tree had met its match, and Bob was in my eyes, a more glorious victor than any matador.

 

Topless Club Sandwich

You’ve probably heard of the sandwich generation, the group in the middle still raising kids while taking care of aging parents. Well, I was a club sandwich, taking care of two generations older than me and two generations younger.

My grandfather became homeless at the age of 92 when his house burned down in the Oakland fire of 1991. He lost everything. I was living alone in a four bedroom house, so he and his girlfriend moved in. Not only did he need someplace to live, but he needed help dealing with settling his insurance claims, replacing lost documents, building a new wardrobe, managing his health care, and buying a replacement car. Yes, he was still driving.

My mother, his only child, was suffering from dementia. She had gone downhill after the death of my father in 1984, so I took over managing her life and care in a nearby facility. I tried having her live with me, hiring people to assist, but she was insufferable. She refused to let caregivers do their job. She wouldn’t eat food they prepared, wouldn’t allow them to bathe and dress her, and wouldn’t go to doctor’s appointments without me. To preserve my sanity, I placed her in a care home in 1990, but still managed her affairs, took her to medical visits, and spent time with her.

Late 1992, my beloved brother was dying of AIDS in Issaquah, Washington. Providing respite to his partner by sharing caregiving, I flew to Washington from San Jose on Friday afternoons and returned Sunday evenings. Ken died in January, 1993 and I served as executor of his estate with all its concomitant duties.

Later in 1993, my younger daughter’s marriage failed.  Her ex-husband left the state and provided no support for her or their three kids. I could not bear to see them suffer; I needed to know they were safe. So the four of them moved into a house down the street from where I lived. I provided rent, transportation, baby-sitting, and pre-school tuition.

And I worked full time as a technical writer for IBM.

When my brother and grandfather died in 1993, I came into a small amount of money. I knew I had to use some of it to bring a little fun into my life. Taking a long hard look at the way I spent my time and the towering responsibilities I still shouldered, I realized driving was the most fun I had during those dreary days. I loved driving: the isolation, the time to myself, singing out loud, drumming on the steering wheel, and forgetting about the difficult reality of my day-to-day life. I was still locked into taking care of my mother, my daughter, and my grandkids, so my escape would have to be limited to the time I spent in the car. But, I could make it a lot more fun. I could do it in a convertible.

At the age of 54, I walked into a Toyota dealership and plunked down cash for a white Celica GT convertible. It was sweet, with a big smile for a grill across the front of it, demure retracting headlights,  a sexy spoiler on the rear, grey leather seats, and a black rag top. The first few days I was afraid to think about what I had impetuously done. I continued driving my SUV while the convertible huddled in the garage. From time to time, I opened the door from the kitchen to the garage, saw that it was really there, and closed the door wondering what in hell had possessed me.

Before long, my daughter’s car died and I gave her my SUV. The convertible became my only car. I began to realize I could do more than just drive to and from work; I gradually worked up courage and took off on weekends. My favorite getaways involved driving the California coast, especially the Big Sur coast down to Morro Bay and back. I processed grief and solved many of the world’s problems on those solo trips. I had no desire for company. The freedom to stop, go, and meander with no consideration for anyone else and no one to take care of was so liberating. I never questioned whether the top would be up or down. It was down. Every weekend it wasn’t raining I took off. Cold weather didn’t stop me, top down, heater and radio blasting, I was free. Money bought me hours of happiness as I explored California topless.

During this time I was seeing a psychotherapist because I had so many tough issues to deal with. I couldn’t focus and sort out what I needed to do. My mind was a muddled mess. On the shrink’s suggestion, I took a month off work to get my head together. In retrospect, I know I resolved much more behind the wheel than I did in therapy. He expressed concern about my impulsive spending. I was worried about not having any fun.

Supporting my daughter in a separate household became unaffordable, so she and her three boys moved in with me. We were crowded in my 1500 square foot San Jose home and I began to consider other options. We decided to move from Silicon Valley to the Sierra Foothills, where I bought a large home with a huge yard and a swimming pool. I rented a room in Silicon Valley during the week and commuted to the hills on weekends. Again, driving became the best part of my week. I developed what I called Zen driving, where I effortlessly, but fully consciously, moved through the countryside on the 180 mile drive. Heavy traffic never bothered me. I saw as it as opportunity for more solitude and contemplation. As always, when in my magic convertible zone, I alternated meditation with singing, listening to classical music at a very high volume, and transporting myself in more ways than one.

One particular Sunday night, I was returning to Silicon Valley around 10:00 P.M.; there was virtually no traffic. A Strauss waltz blared from the speakers in the door while I waltzed down the highway, staying in my lane, but swinging from one side to the other as I counted out one-two-three, one-two-three. It took a while before I noticed the red light of a highway patrol car in my rear-view mirror. I pulled over and the patrolman approached my car. His first question was, “Have you been drinking?” I assured him I had not. He said he had observed me weaving within my lane, not crossing the line, so he wouldn’t cite me, but he wanted to know what was going on. He let me go with a recommendation that I restrict my waltzing to the dance floor.

During the time I owned my convertible, it suffered three injuries. The first was a sad encounter with a BMW driven by a distracted teenager. After a month in the repair shop and $13,000 worth of rehabilitation, it was nearly as good as new.

My beloved car suffered its second mishap on the morning of January 22, 1997, when my older daughter gave birth to her second son. I was so excited by the news, I backed into the garage door frame on my way to the hospital. The result was a small dent in the rear bumper which I left unrepaired. I thought of it as a birthmark.

My long distance commuting ended when I began telecommuting and anticipated retiring. Many days I didn’t even leave the home in the hills I shared with my younger daughter and her three boys. The convertible often stayed in the garage while my daughter drove our Suburban. My getaway drives became explorations of the Sierra mountain passes. I drove them all. My faithful wheels managed the 10,000 foot granite summits with ease. In the middle of October, 1999, golden Quaking Aspens shimmered, cowboys rounded up cattle grazing in high alpine meadows, and the first snowflakes fell on my unprotected head; it nourished my soul. 

By this time, my oldest grandson was 15, looking forward to getting his driver’s license, and hopeful that he would inherit my beautiful little car. He jumped the gun one day when he decided to take the convertible for an unauthorized spin. However, he was thwarted when, while still in the driveway, he banged the convertible into the Suburban. The damage to the Suburban was undetectable, but the Celica suffered a disfiguring blow to the right front quarter panel, and its left headlight could no longer retract. I couldn’t deal with it. The car had 120,000 miles on it, the threads on the rag top were showing signs of wear, and now this unsightly blemish. I decided to sell. I ran an ad and agreed to sell to the first respondent, a young man who planned to surprise his wife with a birthday gift. I sold it for about half what it was worth, but more important it went to another loving home.

Spilling My Guts

 

 

It’s over! Sudden tears oozing out, giving way to a flood streaming down my face. It started when I read that Kamala Harris was the first woman, the first black person, the first south Asian to be elected Vice President of the United States.

Big huge gulping sobs that come hiccupping from my diaphragm. I don’t normally cry. What has come over me?

Euphoria Like the moment after a difficult labor and a long pregnancy, when my newborn is placed on my belly and my hand reaches down and touches her. Something overwhelming kind of like electric shock races through me, but it is a current of joy and release from pain that I had been feeling.

I bring up the mental image of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel painting of the creation of Adam.

If my reaction is so intense, what do Joe Biden and Kamala Harris feel?

I stop and look at Facebook, post my reaction, read comments from my friends in Asia and Europe. It feels like the whole planet is rejoicing.

https://www.huffpost.com/entry/photos-show-celebrations-across-the-world-as-joe-biden-wins-us-election_n_5fa48a89c5b64c88d3feaddb?ncid=newsltushpmgnews&guccounter=1

The Rock, I and II

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, there was a rock, the same rock you see pictured above. A long time ago it was much smaller and it lived on a hillside west of where it now rests. It's larger now because it is covered with a painted coat of many colors somewhere between six and twelve inches thick judging by the depth of the fringe of paint drool at the bottom.

The rock, as it is eponymously known, was born on a grassy hillside just above what is now El Dorado Hills Boulevard during God-knows-what geologic era, created by some mysterious formative event. It began service as a community bulletin board sometime in the 1980's, after the opening of Oak Ridge High School in the unincorporated population center known as El Dorado Hills.

Over the years, the rock was decorated with either spray paint or by brush to celebrate holidays, birthdays, athletic competitions, and occasionally other personal events. At some point in the late 90's a decision was made to construct an apartment complex on the spot nature had for eons claimed as home for the rock. The community was advised that the rock would be smashed into pebbles and distributed on the hillside. The unincorporated, but not disorganized, community banded together and raised such a fuss that Doug VeerKamp, descendant of El Dorado County pioneers, and all around good guy, in tandem with the El Dorado Hills Bowman's Association, came to the rescue. With land donated by the archery association, and lots of heavy equipment available to Doug through his family's construction firm, the Volkswagen-sized rock was saved from what seemed like certain doom and transported across the street to a safe and convenient site. It was a fine moment for a community that wasn't even officially a city or a town.

Once safely ensconced on its new resting place, it resumed service announcing birthdays, victories, tragic losses, and all the momentous events of life. And then 9/11 happened. The rock was beautifully outfitted with a glorious and patriotic rendition of the stars and stripes. So momentous was the event and so beautiful the work, that no one dared paint over it. It stood for many days as testimony to our shock, sorrow, and patriotism.  The muted community struggled to come to terms with the world-shattering events and secondarily, mourned the loss of use of the iconic rock as a bulletin board.

Again, Doug VeerKamp came to the rescue. Another similarly-sized rock was found and planted on the hillside a respectful distance north of Rock I. Rock I could now continue to commemorate 9/11 while Rock II took over community service. A noble concept, but it didn't last long. Before long, both rocks were painted regularly with personal messages, announcements, and declarations. Some locals were outraged, but the need for more messaging space was genuine. By this time, El Dorado Hills had grown from about 5,000 to around 20,000 people who had many things to announce, more than could be contained on a single rock.

And so, Rock I and Rock II continue to announce and celebrate special events. The community is divided into two kinds of people: those who have had their name painted on the rock and those who wish they had. And two other kinds: those who had painted the rock and those who intended to do so. I belonged in the second category in both cases. Because my Very Special Grandson, Logan, was turning 18, I seized the opportunity to join the ranks of the painters. I enlisted the help of my Very Special Grandson, Bill, and we planned to paint the rock. We learned much that is of probable interest and value to would-be rock painters. Here are some guidelines:

• Choose a simple design and simple color scheme.
• Do it in the daylight on a dry and wind-still day.
• Use spray paint, not buckets and paintbrushes.
• Plan on four cans of paint for the background and one each for any secondary colors.
• Allow two hours to complete the project, more if picnicking or drinking is involved.
• Wear old clothes. If more than two people participate, they will get overspray all over themselves.
• Take lots of progress pictures.
• Be nice when your masterpiece is painted over., 

 In the picture above, you can see the last salmon-colored remnant of the previous display. Very Special Grandson, Bill, and Doting Grandmother, Melody, have nearly finished applying a new white base coat over the earlier masterpiece.

 VSG finishes up while DG seeks shelter from the wild wind-driven overspray.

 VSG has completed the preliminary outline of the Polar Bear (never mind what it looks like, it's a POLAR BEAR!)

 VSG, Logan, AKA Polar Bear, lounges on a convenient ice-floe, and politically incorrectly enjoys global warming.

Rock II is on the left, Rock I reads HAPPY 4TH B-DAY (I didn't notice a name).

Notice the stalactites of paint formed at the bottoms of the rocks. On the right you can see weeds growing in the sheltered area near the fringe of paint. On the left you can see paint on the ground which has formed a thick solid coating. In some places you can break off chunks and see all the colored layers. I wish someone would take a core sample of both rocks so we could see just how thick the paint is.

Just in case anyone is interested, my birthday is April 18th, turquoise and purple are my favorite colors.

Note: this is my 500th blog post!

The Railroad Paper Caper

Executing Phase I of my retirement plan, I sold my Silicon Valley home and moved to El Dorado County, the land of my gold rush ancestors. I planned to telecommute until I could officially retire. On an evening late in May 1996, I was supporting local agriculture by sipping a glass of Boeger’s Zinfandel, reflecting on how satisfied I was by the move. I loved everything about the area, the landscape, the produce, the history.

From my recliner, I saw a young man approach my front door. Setting down my glass, I got up and opened the door in anticipation of his knock. Casually dressed in khakis and a plaid shirt, he carried a large envelope under his arm. “Mrs. Moore.” He said it assertively; it was not a question.

I acknowledged that I was Mrs. Moore. He handed me the package and when I had it in my hands, he identified himself as a process server for El Dorado County and told me to sign the summons he held before me.  I signed with an unsteady hand. I had never been served a summons before. Frenzied crazy thoughts began racing through my mind. Did this have something to do with the sale of my house in San Jose? Was someone suing me? Before I could ask the young man anything, he had turned and was headed back to his car. His job was done and I was on my own with whatever I held.

Retrieving my glass of wine, I moved to the dining room table. I picked up the bottle for good measure; it was a very thick envelope.

Using the blade on my corkscrew, I slit the envelope open and spilled its contents on the table. I quickly determined it had nothing to do with my real estate dealings, but it did have something to do with land. The State of California, Department of Transportation (DOT), had summoned me to a hearing scheduled for August 1 in Placerville. No longer worried, but increasingly intrigued, I put the wine aside and began to sift through the documents. The official complaint, property descriptions and copies of old maps were spread out on the table. Ancient handwritten property records gave the documents the appearance of a treasure map. My great-grandfather’s name, James Blair, came into focus and my interest grew.

I learned some property near Forni Road had been condemned to build a freeway overpass. The State was now trying to determine who should receive the $33,700 held in escrow. I first thought, why me? And then, why not me? Could it really be mine?

The papers spread out before me hinted at the answers. I learned the new overpass would be anchored on property that had served as a railroad bed in 1888 and for many years after. The 1887 records revealed three parcels of land had been transferred from their previous owners to the partnership of James Blair, H. S. Morey, and A. Meirson of Placerville. The partners paid each of the sellers $1 for adjoining parcels creating a long strip of land 100 feet wide. The deeds carried the condition that the land was to be used for the construction of a railroad to be completed by the first of June 1888 or else title to the land would revert to the sellers.

My first reaction was one of bemusement and mild interest. I loved hearing from my great-grandfather in this way. I knew he had owned a lot of property and was very active in the development of Placerville. As far as I knew he had founded Sportsman’s Hall and operated it during the Pony Express and Civil War Days, owned and managed a lumber business, held a partnership in a hides and tallow business, and kept a ranch in Galt. And now a railroad. Could it be that fate had protected some of his wealth from his profligate children?

I was curious about the other two men. I knew their names from Placerville’s history. Morey was a banker and Meirson was a foundry man. The partnership seemed logical: supplying lumber for ties would benefit Blair, while Meirson could provide the rails and spikes, and Morey could put the deal together.

My mind lept ahead. How long was this railroad? How many parcels were there? The DOT was only concerned with a small portion of it, but surely it was much longer than that. Frankly, $33,700 divided among God knows how many heirs wasn’t really worth going after, but the railroad probably reached all the way to Sacramento or at least Folsom. I knew it extended down through Latrobe. And how many heirs are there? If the DOT thought three parcels belonged to the heirs, then we probably owned the whole railroad line! What could it be worth? Maybe I would be able to retire soon. I needed some advice.

I calmly waited until the next day to call my friend Ralph, an attorney for CalTrans. He suggested I call the DOT right-of-way agent in Marysville and gave me her phone number. She was familiar with the situation and cheerfully provided the information I sought. She told me they found one Morey heir and three Blair heirs. No Meirsons. She also volunteered that the Morey heir was an old woman near death in Rancho Murieta. Her only child decided they would not pursue the matter. Okay, I thought, more for me.  I began to plan a second story addition to my home, and possibly a new car.

I was obliged to respond formally through an attorney if I planned to attend the August hearing. By this time, I determined to go for it. So, I contacted my Blair co-heirs, a cousin in Placerville, and an uncle in Southern California. We agreed to a partnership and planned to split attorney’s fees, up to $1,000 each, and see what we could learn.

I attended the first hearing in August in a feebly air-conditioned conference room in the El Dorado County court house on Main Street. Also attending were my cousin, our attorney, and the presiding judge. The DOT and Southern Pacific participated by telephone. SP stated they felt they had a claim to the money because they had bought the railroad. Our attorney countered his opinion that they probably had an easement on the land and that the easement expired when the railroad ceased to function and the land reverted to the heirs of the Placerville partners. That sounded logical to me.  We could hear indistinct mutterings from the Southern Pacific contingent. They then asked for an extension to get the facts together. The matter was continued to November.

In November, I showed up at the courthouse and the meeting lasted five minutes. SP asked for a continuance. My confidence and spending plans grew. Clearly we had them on the run, they were scrambling. I dreamed of a family vacation in Hawaii.

By this time, I had calculated the strip of land in question was probably 33 miles long and 100 feet wide. What was it really worth? A million, three million? What could be done with it? The longest strip mall in the world? Another railroad? Didn’t the Sacramento Placerville Transportation Corridor Joint Powers Authority think it was theirs? Had SP sold it to them? Would they buy us out? What about the property owners around it? How about recreational use? Bike trails, equestrian trails, skateboard parks? Now I was becoming altruistic. We would think of some noble cause to honor my great-grandfather’s memory.

February’s hearing was rescheduled till April. In April, the Southern Pacific lawyers produced a deed that appeared legitimate. It conveyed forty-six parcels to the Northern Railway Company. Following our attorney’s advice, we gave up, and I returned home to a new bottle of zinfandel and dreams of Lotto winnings.

Wireless and Lovin' It!

NOW I feel at home. As of yesterday, all systems were go. Stupid stuff like being unable to find my pc power cord and running out of printer ink kept everything from functioning in a way that gave me peace. At last I have Kindle, iPhone, PC, two TVs, an X box, laptop, printer, and sewing machine all operating the way they are supposed to. All that is left to for me to conquer is the full use of my new iPhone and the TV remote. I caved in and bought iPhone for Seniors for Dummies to help with the phone (it's a stretch for a former techie who wrote manuals to actually break down, buy one, and read it). Conquering the TV remote I'll leave for some day when boredom sets in. I'll know I'm home when I find time to sit down and sew once again. My fingers are itching to touch fabric.

I upgraded my iphone 3 to an iphone 5s the day before I left Ozark. So, I took off cross-country not knowing for sure how to even answer a phone call. I quickly learned how to use the map feature and "she" guided us to our hotels most of the time. I'll let the mis-direction in Flagstaff slide for now.

I've bought cleaning supplies and implements, food, and some plants for the back yard, so I'm starting to feel settled. Pictures still need to be hung and I need to clean house. Once I've cleaned, I'll feel like it really is mine.

Logan is settling in, although he is lonely and bored some of the time. He has made some acquaintances by hanging around the pool. It's really tough when you are 17 and need to be cool all the time. I want him to bring the new people around to meet me and the idea horrifies him. He wants to go hang out with them and I don't know anything about them. It's tough. I'll be glad when school starts and we can get a rhythm to our lives. Now, he sleeps late and stays up late. All of this is so normal for a teen-ager, but it is still a bit inconvenient for this morning person.

More later about the move, the trip, the new place, etc.

Whirlwind Trip

Logan and I spent a very productive long weekend in California over Easter. We left Springfield on Friday, my 75th birthday. I celebrated by walking through airport security wearing a sweater and my shoes (and a few other articles of apparel), having just arrived at the age of privilege where such wild goings-on are tolerated by the folks at TSA. Nonetheless, Logan and I both had to endure patdowns because of our various metal body parts.

I drove our rental car (a Chevrolet of some sort that was nearly impossible to get in and out of because of the low entry)straight to Davis because I miss Ben too much and couldn't wait to see him. Well, I was able to wait just a bit -- Logan and I hit In and Out Burger before driving to the campus. I don't know why their simple classic burgers, shakes, and fries are so good, but nearly all California emigres drool at the thought of them. Many of the joys of moving back to California are retail related: Costco, Ikea, Whole Foods, Trader Joe's, In and Out Burger, REI (gift shopping for Ben), Crate and Barrel, Cost Plus, Williams-Sonoma, etc. I know these places exist in other parts of the country, but they are all close together and easily accessible from where we'll be living (and shopping).

Colleen and Robby met us in Davis and Ben "bought" all of us dinner loowith his student dining

commons card after we spent some silly time in my hotel room at the Aggie Inn. I spent the night in Davis while Logan went home with Robby and Colleen.

The next day Logan and I checked out the apartment we want to rent in El Dorado Hills. It is quite nice and conveniently located to retail (!) and family. Amenities of the complex include a pool, clubhouse, basketball court, dog park, washer and dryer in the unit, and three bedrooms which we will somehow squeeze into. I am so ready for this move.

Sister Valery and Jim Piper were married at Saturday noon. They said their beautifully-scripted vows on the beach at Negro Bar Beach on the American River and then we went to the nearby Sudwerks for lunch. The weather was sunny and mild and the very small select company sublime. 

 Colleen and Andy wait for the ceremony to begin while Susie Lee and I fool around taking each other's pictures. Susie (she calls herself Sue these days) and Valery have been friends all their lives, 61 years. Our families lived next door to each other.

 Logan made it down the stairs to watch the ceremony. He did amazingly well on the trip, schlepping through airports, sitting in cramped seats, sleeping on couches, and maneuvering over rough terrain.

 The bride and groom just before the ceremony, and (below) while exchanging vows.

 The happy couple hosting the reception at Sudwerks.

Valery shows off her wedding band while Jim proves he never grew up.

 Ben and Logan paid their respects to Missy while we visited Jim and Valery at their home after the wedding festivities.

 Silly cat at Valery's thinks Colleen placed this bowl under the table just for her comfort.

Silly Ben thinks this hammock was placed in Colleen's backyard just for his comfort. Valery looks on while he reads from an assigned book for one of his classes at UC Davis.

Today we are back at home and things are gearing up for our move. The house is listed and we have already had a couple of people express interest. One opted for another house, the other hasn't seen the house yet, but wants to have a big house in this neighborhood and ours is the only large house in our neighborhood on the market. 

Living His Dream

Ben has been very fortunate in his choice of schools. I am so glad he persevered when I was doubting the wisdom of letting him going far, far away. Davis has many fabulous offerings. Here's a sample:

• The STEP program provided an in-depth orientation to campus life just before school started. It began with a four-week intensive residential sampling of college life, complete with residence hall living, dining commons meals, classes, and counseling. All at no cost to Ben. Once a student has been accepted into the STEP program, they remain with the program through all four undergraduate years.The University wants to ensure the success of these special kids.
• He has been accepted into the BUSP program. It's a special program for students who want to pursue research in biological sciences. In the summer between Freshman and Sophomore year, it provides two free summer school sessions along with a stipend to help with living expenses. Sophomore year he is guaranteed a job in research.
• He has become interested in the community gardens and the domes housing
  
  He has been taking meals there several times in the past couple of weeks. I can imagine him living in the domes when the time comes.
• He is investigating research travel through Wallacea

Oh, Ben, the places you'll go, the things you'll see.

And he witnessed his first campus protest. He did not partake, because he has yet to form an opinion, but he will be doing his research to find out how he feels about the position of the new UC president on immigration issues and he will be watching to see what actions she takes. Ben has never been political in the past and it's exciting to see this awakening.

And Yet My Heart Sings

The house deal is all but dead. The buyers failed to get the loan they had applied for and were unable to close. The "all but" part is they are still trying to get a loan and still want to buy the house. And I still want them to have it. I already rented the house I hoped to move to and if the deal collapses (which realistically speaking, it has) I will have to break the lease, move back the few things I had moved in, and lose a couple thousand dollars. That really sucks. I also moved a bunch of stuff to a storage facility which I won't need. And I really like the house I rented. That's the part I'm having a hard part shaking. I can envision living there and I want to!

So, I could be righteously depressed. But, I'm not. I had a phone call from Ben yesterday to let me know he has been accepted into UC Davis's BUSP program. BUSP is Biology Undergraduate Scholars Program. It is designed to track EOP kids for PhD programs in the biological sciences. So, as friend Sharon suggested, that makes it Ben's Uber Special Program. Yes, I'm very excited that he has been accepted into this program which will get him into some research-track classes including two special summer school classes at the end of his freshman year. These classes are FREE and he will be given a stipend to help defray living costs. During his sophomore year he will have the opportunity to work for PAY on a research project. And that is all very good news. But, the best part is knowing he is realizing his dream. And that makes my heart sing.

STEPping into UC Davis

On a whirlwind trip to California last weekend, I delivered Ben to UC Davis. Leaving home Friday morning, I took a three-hop trip through Denver and Phoenix and arrived in Sacramento around 5:00 PM. and then headed to Valery's in my beautiful rented Chevrolet Traverse. I've been driving Japanese cars since 1981, but if I could afford a Traverse, I'd buy American again. That vehicle was amazingly comfortable and had so many convenient safety features. WANT! 

That evening, Colleen, Andy, and Robby brought us a great assortment of takeout food from Whole Foods (WANT Whole Foods nearby!) including some interesting vegan/vegetarian dishes for Ben. Robby is great at engaging with Ben and I love to watch and listen to them banter.

Saturday morning, Ben loaded the car and we struck out for Davis. We first went through a registration process where I had my first meltdown. The smiling person at the desk asked my name, and I fell apart. Great gulping sobs and rivers of tears -- the whole (water) works.

 Here's Ben's home away from home for the next four weeks. He's staying in a triple room, although there are only two of them occupying it for the STEP program.

Ben's roommate is from Atwater, California and seems to be a nice kid. I am hopeful that they will get along together.

I can't believe how tight the rooms are, they literally stack them in there -- note the bunk beds. There is a single bed behind Ben. Although Ben was the first to arrive, he graciously waited till Tyson showed up and allowed him to choose his bed first. Tyson opted for the single and Ben went for the lower bunk. Fortunately there is lots of open common space and lounge areas. This level of sharing is going to be a big change for Ben.

Campus food at Davis is nothing like the Army style grub I experienced in my college dining commons. Because Davis is an Agriculture school, a lot of the food served is grown right on campus. Ben is holding a bagel nearly as big as his face in the photo above and those bagels are part of the every day offerings in the platform-style dining commons.

Politically correct and delicious fair trade certified Starbuck's coffee is also part of the standard fare, along with a wide assortment of vegetarian, vegan, and gluten-free offerings. 

Eco-awareness is pervasive. You can't toss anything without considering the destination of the refuse. The trash buckets labeled "Landfill" are much smaller (and scarcer) than the various recycle bins around campus.

 

 And then there are the bicycles. On any given day during the school year, 20,000 bicycles are being pedalled around the nine-square mile campus.

Ben is participating in UC Davis's STEP (Special Transition Enrichment Program). This amazing program is designed for kids who may need extra attention in making the transition to college life. In many cases, these are kids who are aging out of foster care and they are most often of ethnic minorities. Ben was selected because of his status as an emancipated orphan. He is conspicuous in the group because of his red hair (the only red head among the 100+ kids) and his fair skin. Diversity is a bonus feature of the program for a kid who comes from very white community. In spite of his background, Ben seems to be culturally color-blind.

The four-week orientation includes mock college classes to prepare them for the real thing; priority registration, and loads of counselling. They remain identified as STEP kids throughout their undergrad years and everything is done to promote their academic success. Their grades are monitored and they are provided tutoring if necessary; they have access to an abundance of academic, financial, and psychological counselling services; and they continue to have access to priority registration throughout their time at Davis.

As part of the four week program, Ben is scheduled for one-on-one meetings with the chair of the Entomology department and with the head of the Bohart Entomology Museum. Ben has had contact with both of these people in the past, so these meetings should serve to clearly identify Ben to these people who will be important to him. Ben hopes to work at the museum and he wants to become part of a research team. Research-track  courses in the biological sciences are offered at UC Davis.

After spending a day on campus and learning much more about the program and the University, I am convinced Ben is in the right place.

I spent the night in a single room in a residence hall -- part of a four-room group sharing a  bathroom. Everything I needed was conveniently at hand. But, OMG, was it small! I could not shake the image of a prison cell and kept wondering what a life of incarceration would really be like. Just after falling into a deep sleep, the fire alarm sounded. Because it is still summer break on campus, the only occupants of the residence hall were half a dozen parental-type attendees of the STEP orientation. We all vacated our rooms and didn't know what to do. I finally called 911 (the calls go to the on-campus emergency services) and was told the fire department was responding. Of course, it turned out to be a false alarm, someone had "accidentally" leaned on the alarm button. Seems that I remember similar "accidents" occurring on a regular basis during my dormitory days. Some things never change.

(Sorry for the awkward formating of this post, blogger is being uncooperative this morning.)