Whew!
Friends, I’m here to tell you (surprisingly) that the last week has been hectic, joyous, discomforting, uncomfortable, amazing, dangerous, and lovely. There were many opportunities for things to go terribly wrong, of course, and there were hiccups surely, but all things of each of those things seem to have gone well. This is the story of all of it.
My history of last week keeps swirling around the Cute and Cozy Cabin (can we please find a better name for this joint? – ed Well, a contest surely won’t work. Maybe just a taunt. How about a “who ever comes up with the best name for the cabin will have that name engraved on a plaque which will be permanently mounted on the front of the joint” challenge? What if I say that a picture of said plaque will be posted here for posterity? How about them apples? – bob whoo, stop. my imaginary heart is racing… – ed)
The week before last, the escrow closed. This week I was able to actually “take delivery” of the property. If only that involved untying a pretty ribbon and opening a brightly wrapped box. The opening ceremony last Saturday was largely unceremonious. I went to the post office and checked the box. Return to sender, return to sender, return to sender, keep the Cabella’s catalog (exercising the “or current resident” clause), return to sender. Whatever. Not exactly what I was looking for.
The keys were in an envelope near the front door and that was it. No greetings, no champagne, no pies. It was quiet save for the startled squirrel and the angry blue jay. Maybe that’s the point. Now that I think about it, I don’t suppose I should’ve hoped for anything larger, but I did, for just that fleeting moment.
I unloaded everything I had brought with me, all the tools and goo and gizmos, then took stock of what I’d really got myself into. A long hard look into the murky underbelly of what seemed to be an unloved sixty-year-old home brought some things to light. The many previous owners adhered to the “just good enough” ethic. Let’s not get started on the coats of paint used to heal various sins. The drywall screws used to secure anything and everything to a wall has cured me of my addiction to those particular fasteners forever. The P.O.’s abuse of drywall screws should spur some sort of legislative initiative (heaven forbid some sort of actual legislative action, not here!). Ceramic cherub? Where’s a drywall screw? Wicker shelf thingy? Drywall screws and the twist ties from the produce department should hold that up nicely.
I brought a chair out onto the expansive deck overlooking the forest and the tips of the top of Idyllwild below and just sat. There’s so much to do.
Saturday night was a different story. An altogether different story of a life that I thought I’d bludgeoned to death ages ago. Saturday night was the night of my twentieth high school reunion. Before I get into the details, allow me to make a general statement. Like a great many people, I found the years surrounding my teens to be the worst of my entire life. It follows, I suppose, that I found meeting up with the people who remind me of that grinding time with not a small amount of hesitation. In all truthfulness, I almost didn’t go. There I was, enjoying my new house, looking out over my new trees, taking in my brand new air, and I thought “hell, what’s seventy five bucks? It’d be better to stay here. This is much nicer. This is home.”
You can guess how far that line of reasoning went. Sure, I could stay at “home.” I could go and get a pizza (more on that in a bit) and try out the new oven. I could unfurl the sleeping bag and spend the night, but that would be simultaneously childish AND chicken. Besides, that’s been a persistent argument against my personality, that I won’t venture out into situations that I might find uncomfortable. Point taken, I grabbed a cup of coffee and headed down off the hill.
After arriving at the folks’ house, I cleaned up and headed out to what failed to become the disaster I had imagined. My name badge was hand-written, and this is important to note. I registered late, very late in fact. They never had the chance to dig up my yearbook photo or actually print my name on the card so people who pretended to know who I was (is there a skinny kid joke coming? if there is, can I suggest you spare us? – ed Nope, but thanks for making the point! – bob) ended up leaning in very close to read the scrawl version of my name after which they were shocked! Is it really you! No way!
Well, yes way, actually. I was nominated to be in the lineup of those voted “most changed.” I lost to the big fat guy I’d never heard of with the long grey hair and crazy beard who attributed his success to beer. Wish I’d thought of that.
My old friends were, wait for it, older. Some had actually found themselves and had become comfortable in their skins. Some were still looking, and some, sadly, were still trying to bluff the gathered masses into believing that everything was okay when it clearly wasn’t. For no real reason, I was surprised by the divorce rate. It loomed large and dominated many conversations. Not just one or two people either. There was a common thread though. Among the guys I spoke with, those who had divorced all expressed great regret then showed me photos of their children. Just like that. All I could choke out was something along the lines of “gee, they look like great kids” which was universally received with “oh yeah, they’re fantastic” and other bits, then more regret, then more drinks. Get the idea?
“So, do you have any kids?”
“Kinda, they’re very furry though…”
Ooof.
“So, what are you doing nowadays?
“I do I.T. for [San Diego’s Omnipresent Charitable Organization], but I used to be a writer…”
“Oh, really? Did you write anything I might have seen?”
“Sure! Ever read the manual that came with your printer?”
“Um, no…”
Buh.
And on it went. I made small talk with girls I had serious crushes on two decades ago, seemingly smaller talk with guys who I once held as closely as co-conspirators in a plot to overthrow the establishment, and still smaller talk with folks who I never was able to get a read on then and certainly can’t now.
The after-party of sorts was to happen at a place in downtown Palm Springs that I’d never heard of. It was getting awfully late for me by then and the directions were vague but I was sort of game so I drove in that direction. Took the turn, didn’t see it, bailed out. The end.
Besides! Sunday was to be jam-packed full of thrills (little did I know) and Saturday was only hanging on for a few minutes longer…
Sleep. Bathing. No shaving (cut myself up pretty badly getting ready for the reunion, so I took a break). Cup of cold coffee (Dad’s coffee maker gave up the ghost that morning) and we were off up the Palms-To-Pines Highway towards breakfast and my parents’ first look at the cabin.
When I was a kid, the drunk drivers and minor felons, check kiters, neer-do-wells, miscreants, and others in the warm embrace of the county correctional system who were requested to perform public service picking up litter on the shoulder of that same highway just showed up in their orange jumpsuits and started filling garbage bags. Yesterday, it was production number par excellence. CalTrans, oh our beloved but misguided CalTrans, decided that the prisoners’ safety was paramount and closed a lane in the twistier two-lane stretch leading up to Pinyon Pines. They led convoys through the mile-long safety zone every twenty-five minutes or so, leaving us time to chat.
Not too long though. I had invited my Lovely and Talented Writing Partner (who no longer writes, but edits like there’s no tomorrow!) to breakfast as well, and who should be behind the Jeep Grand Livingroom but she herself in her little roadster. Is that brilliant timing or what? I’d have to say yep.
We had a chat, shared some jokes, waited some more, then were led up the hill behind another CalTrans “Follow Me” truck. As the pace truck pulled off once we had all passed the molesters, rapists, serial litterbugs, and the rest on trash detail accelerating around a tight corner, we saw the knuckleheads powering downhill. Um, surprise! Brakelights as far as the eye could see would greet them. The poor souls waiting for the Follow Me truck were about to get an unpleasant pounding as my Dad told it. He was six cars behind and witnessed the entire mess. The tow truck operators and insurance adjusters would make there money right there, on that spot.
Heavy downpours followed. Heavy fog after that as we climbed above 5,000 feet. By the time we reached the Bread Basket we were tired, cold, flipped out over the dangers of the road we’d travelled, and simply hungry. The maitre ‘d was cocky and all of thirteen. I saw that movie about twenty years ago. I thought I was in charge or at least tried to project that image because I really didn’t know what I was doing. But I digress…
The rain, now lighter, persisted on our way to the cabin and through most of the afternoon. Dad put on his fishing cap and took a tour of the perimeter, but Mom was feeling the chill and limited her activity to working on the kitchen and pulling down the kitsch in the rest of the rooms. “The pictures don’t really show how big it is,” they said and I agree. They also agreed with me that it’ll be a perfect family getaway.
Which was the point.
Now, all I have to do is paint and repair the broken bits and furnish it and then we’ll be ready for Thanksgiving! Did I mention that I’d committed to having Thanksgiving dinner there? No? That’s a month and a week away. Good gravy. It’ll be a miracle if I pull this one off.
That’s all for now. Thanks for wading through it all.
Your pal,
bob
