HOUSE HUNTING

          Yesterday I looked at a house for rent. The ad said "4/2, secluded with gorgeous hilltop views." The owner warned me about a steep driveway. He did not tell me the drive was unpaved, full of white rocks and deep ruts, or that it went up and down, then up again, to a hilltop of dry scrub, caliche and a dismal pre-fab house.  True, the view was unobstructed, and looked out over miles and miles of same-size rolling hills. 

          I greeted the owner in the driveway, as a workmen carried a door out through the narrow laundry room entrance. A woman appeared in an orange tank top, her orangey hair pulled back in a messy pony tail.

          "I'm so embarrassed," she said folding her arms tightly across her chest. "I'm not wearing a bra. I have shingles." She indicated a patch of angry skin below her collarbone.

          "I'm so sorry," I said nearly gagging on the smell of stale cigarettes.

          "The previous tenants left their dog in the pool," the man said. "My ten-year-old daughter cleaned it out."  I saw what he was talking about: an above ground cement pool with a deck on one end, set back from the house with no yard in between, just rocks.  "They trashed the latticework, too."  Shreds of thin wood strips dangled in the air.

          "That's a shame," I replied.  I took a tour: little dark rooms that appeared unfinished.  Purple paint on one of the small bedroom's walls looked like tempera, with no sheen at all.

          "You can paint over this if you want," the woman said gesturing toward a pink and yellow peace sign and several 1960 style flowers stenciled into the wall.  I nodded.

          I followed her husband up steep brown-painted wooden stairs with no balustrade. "I took it out," he said, "I didn't like the way it looked.  I held on to a sticky, wooden, wall-mounted rail. 

          The upstairs rooms were cramped with muddy looking carpets and unfinished wood-plank balconies, too narrow to hold even one chair. Screens on the doors were loose in their flimsy frames.  The "Master" bath had fixtures from the seventies, a sad little sink and dirty shower.

          I reluctantly held on to the grubby railing as I walked back down into the dark kitchen. I said having no garage would be a problem because my husband needs a place for his workshop.  I bid the couple goodbye and bumped down the driveway. When I got to a place where I could pullover, I called John and told him simply, "P.O.S."

          Today I ventured out again to look at another house, $175 a month more than yesterday's. I met the owner in the back yard where he and two workmen are installing a privacy fence.  He's a cute guy, mid forties, in shape, with clear blue eyes; but my own eyes went directly to a magnificent tree.

          "Is this a sycamore?" I asked, for the multi-pointed leaves reminded me of my favorite tree.  The owner didn't know. He yelled to one of the workmen who said it's a cotton-less cottonwood.  I then noted that the rough bark was uniformly grey, not smooth and mottled like a sycamore. I stroked it anyway.

          "I miss trees," I explained. "Where we're living now, in Riverhill, we have no trees."

          "There's a big oak on the property line," the owner said and I saw it, nicely trimmed at the fence line.  Another big tree complimented my "new friend" as I already felt this tree to be. 

          I pulled myself together and followed him to the front yard, so we could enter the house from the front door which opens into a living room that looks out onto a deck, then the yard. To the right is a dining room and kitchen.  A small passageway with space for washer on the right, dryer on the left, leads to a huge tiled room which I imagined could be John's workshop.  Two windows face the street. A door leads out to the carport.  This room used to be the garage.

          A sunny tiled room faces the back yard, perfect for John's office. Back at the front door a narrow hallway leads to the left: master bedroom and bath, two more bedrooms and another bath.  I called John to tell him I like it. He said, "Take it," but I told him we had to fill out paperwork and he should see if the tiled room would really work to build and listen to his speakers. It has a huge echo. "I can put down a rug," he said.

          When I told the owner I was from California he told me he was from Woodland Hills.  He was born the year I graduated high school and is married to a woman only three years younger than I am.  He retired at thirty-five and spends his time maintaining his rental properties and playing golf.  

          When mentioned that he has a friend in L.A. who is a photographer, I told him maybe his friend can help me figure out how to sell my dad's darkroom equipment. He said his friend has a darkroom where his students actually print pictures. I told him my dad's name and he texted it to his friend, to see if he recognizes it.

          The previous tenant bolted in the middle of the night, breaking her lease, but he doesn't feel it's worth pursuing her.  I told him both my husband and I have been landlords and will never do it again. He said sometimes a person who seems perfect turns out to be a terrible tenant, and vice versa. I told him landlords should look at prospective renter's current residencies to see how they live. He said he didn't think that was legal. I said, yeah, but it's like when you date someone divorced, you should talk to the ex.

          Now John is over there having a look. When I left the house this morning I thought I don't want to move, I know this neighborhood and I don't want to stress the animals. But now I'm visualizing Walter sitting on the deck and Audrey climbing one of the beautiful old trees in the yard. I can see John's containers of vegetables and flowers spread around the yard, adding color to an already private, peaceful setting. 

          I see myself out there too, reclining on a chaise, which I'll have to buy. Maybe for the first time in my life I'll be able to nap outside.

          P.S.  John's back. "Start packing," he said. "We're out of here September first." 

HOUSEPLANTS

          I wonder how many of my friends have house plants. I lie in the tub looking at a small Elephant Ear in a plastic milk jug that John got free when he placed his annual Burpee Seed order.  (They also sent him a blueberry bush and a potted palm that are part of his container garden, outside.)

          I grew up in what is now called a Midcentury Modern house, with planters built into the terrazzo floors.  I didn't know until recently that the twining fig that still thrives there had been a houseplant of my grandmother's before the house was built in 1955. That amazing plant twines up around windows and spreads across the ceiling, held up by hooks my dad screwed into the ceiling many years ago.

          In an adjacent planter huge peace plants reach up toward skylights making for a tight squeeze when you come in the front door. The third planter is fallow, but for tiny creepers of split-leaf elephant ears sneaking in from a planter outside.

          The first houseplants I remember, after I moved away from home, are the coleuses Roger and I had in Berkeley in the early 1970s, tropical plants that come in various shades of red, yellow and purple.  I remember a photo of me with long hair, holding Junior, Roger's and my black and white Manx. The hanging coleus takes up most of the frame. The cat "ran away" after we had him neutered. Roger thought UC medical students nabbed him.  I don't know what became of the plant, or the wandering Jew that flourished in a sunny window, or the African violet that used to grow on Roger's horse-trough desk.

          One of my favorite houseplants was a Boston fern. It perched on a white octagonal column.  I used to pretend I was the wind, and ruffle it, then vacuum up the little brown leaves that fell from its fronds.  When I moved from Los Angeles to Oakhurst I gave it to my parents who planted it up in their shady canyon. I always forget, when I visit, to see if it's still there. I got another one when we built our house in 2000. It lived for ten years in my sunny bathroom. My darling Abyssinian Amber, who was strictly an indoor cat, used to lie under its feathery fronds. I think this somehow satisfied her primal instincts.

          When I met John, in 1992, he had a small corn plant that had belonged to his mom in Iowa. He took it to Texas where it lived many years, then to California. It lived with us in YLP, then Kirk's house, and our house on Quartz Mountain, where it sprouted new growth.  Now it occupies a window in the dining room.  I love stroking the sleek long leaves, when I give it a drink, every week.

          We had over forty houseplants when we moved from California. Most of them found homes with friends. John managed to bring six with him in the U-Haul. The vegetable garden was left behind, as were the natural plants – wildflowers, trees, shrubs, and vines that I miss daily.

          I'm learning to love the trees of Texas, the flowering crepe myrtles, and the gnarly old oaks.  Outside the post office a sycamore struggles to survive. The top is dying but new sprouts push out from lower limbs. I wish I could be in charge of this tree. I would get someone to trim it and fertilize it. I would ask that the grass around its base be weeded and watered.  I would like to sit under that tree and gaze up at the sky. But judging from the window that's been boarded up for six-months and weeds sprouting in the planters I know my wish to see the sycamore thrive is just a dream. 

Early Fourth

          So much of my time is spent sitting: reading, writing, re-writing, researching.  I'm learning that I need to get up every hour and move. Otherwise I'm just a bundle of aches and pains.

          I was thrilled to find the yoga teacher I like has returned from maternity leave. I went to her class Tuesday and Thursday. She sits facing us. Behind her a big window looks out onto Kroc Center's three swimming pools. A sheer blind dims some of the light coming in, but through it I can make out little wet children, fat people in wet tee shirts, and fat women in bathing suits enjoying themselves in the hot Texas sun. Every so often a gigantic bucket spills a waterfall into the kiddy pool, and happy shrieks punctuate the air.

          On Saturday night John and I had dinner at the Guadalupe River Club for the first time.  I always thought it was a "dive" but John went there recently to listen to live music and said it was okay, so we thought we'd give it a try. I liked it. We sat on the large wooden deck, high over a grassy bank on the river.  Silvery clouds obscured the setting sun.

          "This feel's like Hawaii," John said."I know you've never been there. . . as an adult."

          I'm glad he amended his statement because I very well remember bailing water from a catamaran when I was eight.

          I enjoyed my gumbo and salad and shared John's Guinness.  On the way out I thanked the owner, who was watching baseball at the bar. It might be fun to come here in winter to watch a football game . . .

          We left at about 8:15.  A firework display was planned for dusk. John decided to find us a good place to watch, which turned out to be the post office parking lot.

          He backed into a parking space and opened all the windows, including the tailgate. While we waited for the sun to set we saw more and more families arrive. Many set up chairs on the grass. Little children played with red, white and blue light sabers. Someone had their radio tuned to an oldies station. "Little Latin Loopy Loop" filled the air.

          John reclined his seat all the way back, leaned back, pulled up his shirt and put his stocking feet on the dash board. I decided to see if Penney's across the street was still open. Maybe I could pee.

          Being out of the car I got to see the whole, magnificent sky, blazing yellow and pink. As I headed toward Penny's the first firework went off: BOOM!  I felt like I was shot in the chest.  Instinctively I put my hands over my ears. BOOM! I turned and headed back to the car.

          I passed a Latino family with a lot of children. I looked at the youngest one, about two, a tiny, frail little girl.  I wanted to grab her and run for cover. I kept walking, holding my hands over my ears. Finally I reached our car.

          "Can we close the windows?" I asked John through the open window.

          "No!" he said emphatically. So I kept walking.  I walked to the side of the post office and sat on a curb. I put my hands over my ears. BOOM!  My chest hurt. I thought I might throw up.

          Stop it, I told myself. Get a grip. I looked up just as the dark night sky was filled with blinding light that pierced my irises, searing my retina.

          I tried to take deep breaths. Every explosion felt like I was being shot. A thought dawned on me: in my last life I must have been killed in battle. Probably World War I, from the way I was feeling. Where was my foxhole?

          Then the wonderful realization struck me: the post office is always open! I opened the door and entered the cool, impersonal, institutional, fluorescently lighted building.  Ahhhh. Safe!

          I spent the next half hour sitting on a table in the lobby of the Kerrville Post office listening to muffled pops of the patriotic display outside.  My feet dangled as I took deep breaths and reminded myself it would be over soon. I thought about my dog and cats at home, glad they were far enough away from this madness.

          I've always hated the Fourth of July. At the age of three my nine-year-old sister tried to get me to see the beauty of sparklers but I just threatened to call the police if she lit one in our back yard. When we moved to Rustic Canyon I hated having to go down to State Beach and sit in damp sand for the fireworks display on the Santa Monica Pier. In my thirties, working at a beach club, I dreaded the drunken crowds and burning bluffs that filled the foggy air with smoke. 

          I continually try to like this holiday.  One year John and I went to Bass Lake with a friend who owned a boat.  I remember floating in the murky water, with the stink of smoke and how it settled over the lake. When we finally got to head back to our cars, I felt like a refuge.

          When we lived on Quartz Mountain, John and I would stand on our deck and watch tiny red, blue and green pin pricks appear, then disappear, thirty-five-miles away in the San Joaquin Valley.  Above us the sky was clear and still, punctuated only by a bat flittering past - the way night is supposed to be.