I HAVE A TEAM

MY TEAM

     After the first nightmare days of errors, I managed to pull my dream team together and I'm beginning to believe the work will get done.  I am the captain of my ship, and I run a tight one; I'm in charge and on top of every detail.  But I couldn’t do any of it without my first in command, “L,” who showed me what could be done with a homely little space on the river, built in 1985, a little like a family motel.  L recognized its potential; he sat down and planned it out, told me what needed to be done.  He started with the knocking down walls; every unnecessary piece of wall would be removed.  Then he looked at the floor and got an inspired vision: whitewashed distressed boards, like a beach house, and all the rest followed from that.

      “L” is a miracle-man; a trained designer/decorator/transformer-of-spaces par excellence. His ideas are brilliant; I love his taste; he’s a gentleman and an inspiration.  He’s not only a master at what he does, with more than a half century of experience,  he’s patient and caring, driving me to every junk, consignment, and antique shop in Vallejo, Benicia, Berkley, Oakland, Napa, and Calistoga without a word of complaint.  Then we enjoy lunch! 

     Next is “R,” superman, hero, wild man contractor who understands what I want and gives it to me.  Whatever the challenge, he doesn’t give up.  There’s no blah-blah-blah with R; if there’s a question of what’s behind a wall, he just grabs his hammer and BAM! smashes the wall and takes a look.  And, he’s a tough taskmaster with his workers, who don’t mess around.  R tells me he’s been in the business for nearly 40 years, and knows "all about it."  This is another man who enjoys his work and does it seven days a week.  His positive energy and attitude have turned what could have been a nightmare into a great experience for me – even though I’m paying him through the nose. 

     Then I’ve got “B,” an electrician who talks much too much but seems to know what he’s doing.  He told me he prefers creating sound and entertainment systems to pushing wires through walls, but he’s careful, methodical, and gets the job done.

     There’s a fellow who makes stone fireplaces creating my hearth right now, and a floor man who looks 18 years old but assures me he’s 29, who beat out all the competition, and will lay my laminate and carpeting. 

     I’m pleased to report, like the vegetables on my table, my team is 100% local, Vallejo fellows one and all.

     Having said all this, I need to add, and I know I’ve already said it, but I need to repeat this again and again, in case I didn't hear it myself: home-ownership is for masochists.  I don’t recommend it unless you’ve got money to burn.  I’m hemorrhaging green stuff like it was water.  Oh well, if you want the dream team, you’ve got to pay.  
 

TIME & THE RIVER

TIME AND THE RIVER

     I’ve never lived on a river.   I know that swift narrow strip of water that separates me from the island I’ll see every day when I move into my condo, isn't a river, it’s a strait, but the word river evokes magic for me, and is so much more poetic.  I’ll write a poem for that river one day. 

     The island that sits in the middle of this straight looks like a set for a science-fiction ghost-town horror-movie, with abandoned buildings and giant cranes that jut into the sky in front of the sunset, frozen in time, unable to move, erect yet bent like praying mantises waiting for something.  Will they attack us?

     If we were more enterprising, we could call it a sculpture garden dedicated to the time in our nation’s history when Mare Island thrived as an important maritime station.  We’d sell tickets at the bridge and conduct pricey guided tours like universal studios, hawk hot-dogs and little souvenir crane key-chains, like the Eiffel Tower. 

     While walking along the river one fine sunny day I came across a white-bearded, turbaned fellow throwing breadcrumbs to the birds.  It was a stirring scene: great flocks of hungry white seabirds and purple/green pigeons, swooping down and up, again and again, over the river and down on the grass.  And in the center of the maelstrom, his kind, smiling dark-skinned face beaming with joy.  He didn’t speak English but managed to inform me he fed them every day.  I think there’s a homeless woman who does the same each morning. 

     There’s a lot to learn from a river.  I wonder if it has tides, which fish live in it, where it flows, what grows beside it.  I want to study its history and geography, gather rocks from its banks.  Oh, no, I’d better not do that.  It’s time for a visit to the Maritime Museum. 

     Spending on the condo continues like a addiction.  A detailed report is coming soon.     
     Meanwhile, I managed to hold on to enough cash to take myself to a mud bath and massage in Calistoga one afternoon, which also costs an arm and a leg, but a girl needs something soothing after all that pounding, smashing, ripping, scraping and plaster dust, as well as the planning,  deciding, and overseeing of the  thousand and one details that go into a major home renovation.  I confess, however, while floating in a tub full of warm mineral water, cold cucumbers on my eyelids, and a cool hibiscus drink in my hand, I couldn’t stop thinking about the bathroom vanity, the marble for the kitchen, and the pink color I’ll paint the cabinets. 

     I need sliding shoji screens for my closet.  Please let me know if you know that someone.

     On the subject of food for the soul, on my way to Jeff’s Consignment Shop on Springs Road, I discovered the Hummingbird Bakery where I sampled the best “apple pie muffin” I ever ate.  I want to go back for their pecan pie, and chocolate cupcakes.   The side dishes at the Good Day Café make a great light lunch.  And, the staff at the Front Room Restaurant is very kind about letting patrons share plates, and patient in dealing with grandchildren spilling drinks on the floor and a 2 year old tearing off her clothes and running around the dining room like a naked samurai.

DEMO-DEMON - THE HANDIMAN FROM HELL

     Together with my brilliant, talented, designer/decorator friend, whose taste is impeccable, I made my renovation plans and asked around for contractors and workers to do the job.  I thought myself lucky when a builder friend loaned me his demo man who promised to dig out tiles, rip up carpeting, scrape ceilings, break into dry wall and other such noisy messy undertakings in a day and a half, over the weekend, at a price I couldn’t refuse.   

     Do I need to tell you what happened next?  Sneaking out to do other jobs, disappearing for hours, not answering his phone, leaving early, fixing his truck, and telling me his back hurts.  Three days later we’re about half done, and there was a big pile of debris that needed to be hauled away. 

     At least I learned my lesson at the outset, early in the game, and won’t do that again.  I’m going to hire a proper contractor from A to Z, with references and a bona fide business here in town.  Ok. That was a fast weekend seminar in what not to do in home renovation.   I got it.  It was worth the price.  

NEWS FLASH: The consignment store in Berkeley where I purchased two large book cases, a beautiful  bamboo desk, and the most extraordinary Egyptian Revival chair, which they kindly agreed to hold delivery on until my condo was ready, burned down last night.  According to early reports, it happened in the middle of the night; no one was hurt, but at this point I don’t have great hope that my beautiful, albeit second (or third) hand furniture survived. 

PLAY IT AGAIN, SAM…

     Remember the Christmas party with the singing neighbors who welcomed me to the place where I thought I’d buy a home when I first arrived in Vallejo?  How I’ve longed to be among those gentle folk and become part of that community!  So, imagine my surprise when the day before I received the deed title papers, or whatever you call them, to my condo, I bumped into my future next-door neighbor who invited me to a party in her home the following Saturday.   

     Of course I went, bearing a bottle of Bordeaux, and while I discovered they didn’t sing, they did sit around and talk and laugh, wined and dined, and enjoyed each other’s company.  Everyone told me how much they loved living in that community, how they all knew and looked after each other, and winked when they told me that our group of units were the “best” in the complex, and with the “best” people.   

    They welcomed me warmly, and said they looked forward to my becoming part of the community.  It’s the fulfillment of what I’ve longed for a long time, and what I missed so much in Los Angeles.   They also told me that they gave neighborhood parties from time to time, and got together to celebrate the 4^th. of July, and other holidays.  It wouldn’t surprise me if they sing at Christmas time as well.

BREAKING NEWS:  The Berkeley consignment shop escaped the fire, my furniture has survived.   

HAPPY PASSOVER – HAPPY EASTER – HAPPY RETURNS OF THE TAXES

HOME OWNERSHIP BLISS

     I did it!  On April 9^th 2014 I bought the condo.  It was touch and go for a while: first, should-I-shouldn’t-I?, then can-I-dare-I?, then, dealing with a reverse-mortgage-short-sale that I didn’t understand, and 5,000 pages of Home-Owners’-Association-Rules-And-Regulations that were even more incomprehensible.  But, in the end, the bank accepted my offer, I signed everything, and I’m happy to report I’m now a Vallejo homeowner, and like it or not, I’m here and HELLO! 

     I chose the compact little condo with a patio over the spacious hillside dream house with the big yard because of its location and the price was right, and, after all, at my stage of the game, it’s better for me.  Let’s face it, my knees don’t bend like they used to, and, I still want to travel, pack my bags, lock my door and go to Italy for a couple of months without worrying about an unguarded home with possible dry rot that needs constant care.

     My new home is not perfect, neither architecturally interesting nor particularly gracious.  The kitchen is small, there’s an inside flight of stairs I could frankly live without, and I hear a lot of traffic noise from the street in front.  As one astute friend observed, “the place looks like a cheap hotel,” but I can see its potential, and it’s got a view of the river, a fireplace, and 2 ½ bathrooms.  I’ll fix it up.  With a bit of creativity and a bundle of cash it could turn out OK.

     I thought I had a pretty good idea of what I was getting into when I made the offer, but it wasn’t until I sat down with a good friend, an experienced builder/designer/ decorator, and we started making lists of what I need in order to renovate the place the way I want, that I began to understand the true and deep, almost spiritual significance of home ownership.  It came to me in a blinding flash: home ownership is an exercise for masochists with money to burn.  It’s a mandate to Buy, Buy, Buy, Buy, Buy, Buy. 

     Home ownership, as I see it, is the backbone of this country; it’s the realization of the American Dream (for the disappearing middle class); it’s what keeps the economy going and growing (or brings it down); it’s why this country is the greatest place in the world to do business, (and ((currently)) be a general contractor).  Home ownership obliges you to become a perpetual consumer with unending and often unforeseen needs and desires. It’s a black hole.  For the first time in my life I’m thinking about refrigerator doors, washer capacity, and the merits of self-cleaning ovens.   I’m running around looking in places I’ve never before entered: big box stores, flooring and tile stores, closet design and plumbing supply emporiums, and the shining be-all-end-all mecca of home owners across the land: Home Depot. 

     More, more, more….  I need all the appliances (which is best?)   I’m ripping up carpeting and tiles and putting down laminate. (I hope that’s a good decision.)  I’m tearing down partitions, scraping popcorn off ceilings, expanding space, painting everything – and these are just the first items on my list.  I need things and I need help.   Not only will I do my part to stimulate the economy I will become a job creator.

     I keep telling myself I’m having fun.  I am, actually, sort of, in a stressful kind of way.  This is what I’ve saved for all my life.  I’m a home owner now, after all, and it’s a good thing.  My snarky friend hates my house; he says I’m throwing pearls to swine, but I believe I've made a good investment.  I’m transforming a small, dinky place into a wonderful light-filled  home on the river where I can be near my darling grandchildren, and finish out my old age in style.  The way I see it, it’s now or never.