OnLeaving America - Part 36

The house is sold, I think . . . maybe. Tomorrow the inspector comes and I am sure he will find things that will cost us another $5000 plus. It’s been enlightening to go through this. Like all of you I’ve read the many articles on people who are losing their homes. Their fates seemed as distant as riots in Somalia, now I truly feel their pain and remember a time when homes were our major investments, the retirement plans of the working class—all that is gone now. Those who have money make more of it, and those with less lose more of what they have. What’s wrong with this picture.

I feel some sadness leaving this house. I have been happy here and now, with all the updates and thousands spent on improvements. I wish we’d made them a couple years ago so that we might have had a little time to enjoy them. But we were happy the way things were.

 

I sometimes wonder if I have become a neater person through all of this. I’m now accustomed to keeping the house immaculate for prospective buyers, making the bed when I get up and putting things away as soon as I’m done with them—well maybe not putting away as much as putting out of sight, and more often than not forgetting where I put them. Some things will never be seen again until we are on the other side.

If the deal goes through we will have to somehow schlep a bunch of furniture from my wife’s office back to our place where there is no more room in our double garage. Our neighbors will let us keep it in their garages until the movers come. We’ve had wonderful neighbors here, it will be sad to leave them too. 

Where all our stuff will go in Sweden I cannot imagine as the new house is smaller than the one we have here. Things in general are smaller in Sweden, but well made. Showers are the size of phone booths; rooms are smaller too, but solid and well insulated. Windows are triple paned and heat comes from the floor—some kind of hot water system that somehow supplies the neighborhood. The new place is high tech, fiber optics and several systems far beyond my comprehension. Below photo has to do with the heating system . . . this for a man who has trouble operating a cell phone.

We need to be out of the house for three hours tomorrow while the inspector looks for anything he can find that will cost us more money.

Whatever.

Buckminster & Amber - 21

              OMG! Bucks has fleas! Look at him scratching. He’ll be sure to leave them everywhere, and then I’ll have them. This is not good. I had fleas once and they gave me such a haircut. It was embarrassing. My pelt is perfect now; two layers of fur, so beautiful . . . like mink . . . easy for fleas to find a nice home in.

            “You’ve got fleas.” I tell him. “Always scratching . . . probably got them from your buddy, Boots.”

            “I don’t, I’m not, and I didn’t.”

            “You are, you do and you did.” I tell him. This is kind of fun.

            “I don’t,” he says.

            “Okay. Let’s see you prove it.”

            “How?”

            “Let me see you keep from scratching for about . . . let’s say, 800 heart beats . . . something like ten minutes more or less. I’ll count my beats.”

            “How do I know you’ll get it right?”

            “Count yours if you want. I assume you’ll be honest, but I’ll be making my own count. Let me get comfortable, here on this chair . . .” I leap up gracefully. “Where I can keep an eye on you.”

*     *     *

            Bucks barely makes it through 300 beats. “You’ve got fleas,” I tell him calmly with my best sarcastic tone. He knows I’m right, but hasn’t thought of a response yet.

            “I refuse to have another bath!” he says. “Cats don’t need baths.”

            “Some do. Or you might be in for a buzz cut. Remember when I got mine? You said I looked like a Chihuahua.”

            “Mrrow,” he says.

            “Yah, right. Just please stay off my floor of the cat tree.”

            “I want the top floor,” he says.

            “Fine with me, just say off the bottom floor and the bed,” I add.

            “Beds are for females. Males like me and boots go for altitude, so we can to see what’s going on.”

            “I’m going to take a nap—on the bed,” I’ll him. “Catch your act later.”

On Leaving America - Part 35

The House That’s Trying To Kill Me

When the carpet layers redid out floors they turned off a valve that let gas into our living room fireplace so they could put carpet around it. Naturally the pilot light went out. Lighting it again is a bit complicated, never done it before and of course the instructions that were always under the TV have disappeared to God knows where. Will cost $60 for the guy to come out and restart it.

To make the week still more interesting our garbage grinder [new-installed last year] has decided to come loose from the sink. I have installed one before but this one looks strange. Something beyond my laymen’s knowledge has happened to it.

Two days ago my wife informed me there’s a leak in one of our twin bathroom sinks. New faucets were also instilled last year. I looked under the sink and found a carpet of ugly black mold. Another messy clean up. I looked but can’t find where the leak is coming from or why. A single drop comes down from somewhere about every five minutes. Another job for the plumber—guess he can look at the grinder too.

Later I moved a small throw rug that’s been on the floor of another bathroom and found a yellow stain where it used to be. Surrounding floor was sun bleached. Estimate for new linoleum in bathroom – $ 600

After ten straight days of rain, paint has started to peel off our garage doors. Looks bad and I’m unable to fix until it stops raining. Sometimes it never stops raining in Seattle. It’s snowing in Sweden. More than it ever has before—more than a yard so far this year. Another climate change.

We have a vaulted ceiling in the front room and this morning we discovered five hairline cracks that are totally visible . . . need to recall the painter who did front room and kitchen six months ago . . . another expense. In the meantime fourteen realtors have come with prospective buyers . . . no serious offers. Yard is too small. One bedroom is too big, another is too small. One buyer was disturbed by a 100 year old Swedish rifle I had hanging on the wall. One woman was allergic to cats. Windows look old, one said. One didn’t like the color of the house.

I should have burned the place . . . or myself—some kind of Buddhist protest in honor of all those trying to sell a house in this economy.

Will this never end!

Buckminster & Amber - 20

Well, here I am home again and I must admit it feels pretty good.
I’ve never really understood this Santa thing, but I want to believe.
Wishing you all a very happy holiday season and a prosperous new year.
Bucks.

Buckminster & Amber - 19

I slept by the front door last night, and was here this morning when the house-woman left for work. I expected a shriek when she saw Bucks, but there was nothing! What?! Has something happened to him? The Coyote?! Don’t panic, I tell myself. He slept under the deck last night and should have been safe there. The  Coyote is never around in the daytime . . . still. . . .
The house-man’s in the kitchen making . . . coffee I suppose, but wait. He’s coming. Taking out the garbage.
“Bucky!” he exclaims as he goes out the door. “Where have you been, you bad boy?” House-man picks him up, gives him a hug then, “Yuk!” He plops him inside the house and closes the door, leaving us alone for a moment.

“Where were you earlier?” I ask.
“I took a nap in the hedge,” he says. “It was hard to sleep last night.”
“My God Bucks, you’re a total mess.”
The house-man comes back in. He picks Bucks up, walks to the kitchen and deposits him in the sink. I don’t want to watch. He’ll probably freak out. I go into the living room but don’t hear any protest from him. Guess he’s glad to have a bath for once. I hear the water running. Fifteen minutes later he comes padding in, still damp, but happy: I can tell.

“It’s good to be back,” Bucks says.
“I’ll bet! That was the craziest stunt you’ve ever pulled!”
“Well, a cat’s gotta do what a cat’s gotta do. I’ve seen some wondrous things. You can’t imagine what it’s like out there. I’ll tell you later, first I’m heading for the food bowl. I’m a little hungry. Lived on mice these last few days.”

“You caught a mouse?”
“Yeah, sure. No problem. I’m a natural born killer.”
“But, no birds I hope.”
“No birds,” he says. “I left the birds for Boots. Tom’s name is really Boots. He’s not a bad guy really.”

Buckminster & Amber - 18

Oh my God! He’s seen me and he’s coming for me. I can feel my hair stand up on end, which makes me look a lot bigger than I really am. A bigger target. This is it. No trees that I can climb in time, and it’s a good 30 yards to the back fence where I used to live. I’m frozen-catatonic! I can’t move and having crazy thoughts. Sweet memories of Amber. How I wish I told her that I loved her . . . and admitted sometimes I ate from her dish. Too late now. This is the end. I wish. . . .

Oh, Wow! It’s Boots. His coming faster than a speeding bullet  from around Coyote’s rear, then runs in front of him and races back to his place so fast he’s a blur. The Coyote chases after him, but won’t go past his house’s fence. And even if it dared, Boots has his cat-sized doorway. Boots is safe. And so am I! Already streaking for the backyard where I used to live when Coyote turns to look for me again. I leap the six foot fence with ease. A beautiful jump, I must say. Cleared the top by a foot. I trot around the corner, and up three wooden steps onto the deck and sliding glass doors where I used to watch the squirrels with Amber. And she’s here now!

            “Bucks! I heard something crash outside and came to look.”

            “Wind blew off a bottle that was sitting on the fence. It hit the concrete. No big deal.”

            “You look a fright,” she tells me. “Mud all over, and your fur’s all tangled.”

            “Yeah. It’s rough for longhairs on the outside, but I do all right.”

            “Umm. So, I guess you like this new life.”

            “Well, yeah . . . sure, but I’ve been thinking of coming back. I mean . . . well to tell the truth I’ve been missing you Amber.”

            “Oh Bucks, I wish I could open this door for you. The servants are asleep. I could go wake one up but I don’t think they’d get out of bed.”

            “Forget about it. I’ll be by the front door in the morning, hiding in the hedge. I’ll let the servants find me. Do you think they’ll want me back?

            “The way you’re looking now it could go either way. I’m sure they’ll want you, but I’m also sure you’re going to get a bath.”

            “Yeah. I can handle that. I’m a pretty tough cat you know. It’s not easy out on the streets. I’ll sleep under the deck tonight, and tomorrow I’ll give you a good chase around the house.”  

 It’s going to be a very long night.

On Leaving America - Part 34 B

         

            I decided to repaint the hood over the engine—not sure why. I had it painted and all put together except for the latch which held it down. I was going to bolt that on when I got to wherever I was going. The hood, as you see above, was a flat shaped thing and at almost a right angle to the road, like a sail with the wind blowing against it. Seemed obvious the wind would only want to push it the thing down. But crossing the Golden Gate Bridge, an odd gust of wind blew it straight up. It broke off its hinges and flew back over the top of the van, onto the bridge which was full of mid-day weekend traffic, six or eight lanes as I recall, fairly dense. I hit the brakes . . . Ran back and got the damn thing, threw it inside and took off. I don’t know how an accident was avoided  . . . small miracle.

            The van had bells. They were in tune. It took me years to get it right, five of them. Every time you hit a bump or made a turn you’d hear ‘em—ting ting ting. So nice. I meant to take the bells off but had only removed one before the sale. It was from Thailand, given to me by a very beloved aunt. Just as well maybe. Don’t know what I’ve had done with the others.

            I traded the van to my father for his Buick Wildcat after my divorce. It was a faster, cooler car and I was still young, living in Illinois then. He had it for seven years during which it did not age. My father would park blocks away from his destination in order to park in the shade. We traded back when I decided to return to San Francisco. I could get everything I owned inside the van those days. I didn’t know how nice that was . . . but we get older and buy houses . . . and more stuff.

Returning to San Francisco. Van was blue then.

And I had hair!

            I thought it would be painful, getting rid of the van. But I hardly ever used it these last days . . . a trip to Home Depot to buy lumber, or something big, or to help someone move. It sat outside in the Seattle rain for these last fourteen years, but had a good paint job, its third—new tires, and good brakes. But every time I drove it this last year (helping me move again, this one last time) something new would seem a little bit off or go wrong. The gaskets were shot around the doors, rain water leaked in and it rains a lot in Seattle. It’s been raining for the last eight days!

            It never let me down, that van . . . in all those years, but taking the cover off the engine last week was scary . . . so much rust. I’d thought of being buried in the thing, just put my body in the driver’s seat and fill it with tar. But selling was more practical, and it doesn’t feel too sad . . .  losing that steering wheel worn by my father’s hands as well as mine. Dad also loved that van. I think it made him feel young. The guy that bought it’s going to give it to his father, a birthday gift. I think he has money, but I let him talk me down to $300 less than what I asked. He says he’ll spend $5,000 it back in shape for every day practical use. That sounds about right. I’m glad it will go from son to father once again—feels good . . . and sad.