Friends that come and go

Our most enjoyable home was our first home. It was 1973 and we bought in a subdivision that was only two years old. All of our neighbors had moved in at about the same time . We were the first "second" owners. Since everyone had moved in at the same time, they had shared the same experiences and had become friends . On  almost every evening, everyone would come outside and congregate after dinner in someones front yard. Most had small children that played together. It was a great time. An impromptu party every night. Most were enjoyed with little or no alcohol. 

A few months later another first owner moved away and new owners moved in and became friends with everyone else. Everyone  helped to make them feel a part of the neighborhood. It was a time that corporations moved their people a lot and so the "face" of the neighborhood kept changing. Then a different couple moved it. They were right across the street and when they drove  up in a Uhaul truck, I walked over to welcome them and offer assistance . They refused  . Later, I found out that several other neighbors had  offered them help and received a cold response. After they settled in and the neighbors had organized a neighborhood picnic, the new couple was invited , but refused.

Everyone gave up after that and left them alone.

Six months later , I got up one morning and noticed the unfriendly neighbor hadn't left for work. His car was in the drive way with the hood open, and he was peering at the motor. Automobiles were my business, so I walked over to see if I could help. I guess he was desperate because he didn't chase me away. I told him to try to start the engine. When I heard  a distinctive clicking sound I knew where the problem was. He admitted that he didn't know anything about the workings of a car and didn't own any tools. I walked across the street and grabbed a few tools. A half of a turn of the nut on the starter solenoid was all it took. His car started. He got out and as he closed the hood he thanked me and apologized for being unfriendly. He said that his company had moved them three times in six years and during  the first few moves, they had made friends with their neighbors and then had to move. He said it broke his wife's heart each time, so this time they had decided not to even try making friends. In a way I understood, but thought it was a lousy way to live. Soon after that day, that couple got moved again. We moved a year later, but by that time so many of the original owners had moved that the "soul" of the neighborhood was lost. We went back a few time years later  and each time found fewer of our friends. We only kept up with one of the neighbors and visited them in Oklahoma a few years ago. Another recently connected through Facebook. 

Our currant home is in a cul-di -sac . We made friends with several of our neighbors when we moved in and they have since moved away. More recently a couple leased a home near us. We became friends and their young son started visiting us on a regular bases. He had free reign of our house and one day he left without telling us. I installed a night latch high enough that he couldn't reach it and leave without telling us. I named the latch after him. This couple also moved. First across town and now, another  state. Its no fun watching friends move away. However, I won't change. I never forget anyone. Not sure if thats a good thing.

I remember my little friend every time I open my front door and open "his" latch.  

Bucket List and Other Dreams

It has happened quiet a few times since we have been spending our summers in Italy. We'll be in some public place and struck up a conversation with a strange couple. If they are about our age, when they find out we are from America, the mans eyes will glaze over as he says his dream is to travel the Route 66. The 1960's TV series must have really been popular in Italy. The last person that mentioned this dream, wanted to do it on a three wheeled Harley .  Most Italians cannot grasp how big the United States is so I don't bust their bubbles and mention that Route 66 is four thousand kilometers long. I was fifteen when that show was on the air. I don't remember that it gave me "itchy feet" at the time, but I do remember lusting for the Corvette. I never made the connection before, but maybe that show was the reason   why we convinced  our Mother to buy a Corvette. 

I did, however, get excited when I read Steinbeck's "Travels With Charley"  that came out a few years later. For those who never read it, Steinbeck decided to "discover" the America that he had been writing about. He bought a pickup truck and had a slide-in camper installed. He then, along with his wife's poodle Charlie,  embarked on a ten-thousand mile trip across the country. His book was listed as a non-fiction and made the best seller list. I loved the book. This love was not diminished a bit , when fifty years later a  unknown author attempted to duplicate Steinbeck's  trip. He wrote a book "Sorry Charley" in which He concluded that Steinbeck's book should have been listed as a fiction, as most of what he had written was fiction.  "Sorry Charlie" didn't make the best sellers list. 

I have often thought about trying to duplicate Steinbeck's trip and write my own stories. However, I have given up the 

idea. The biggest problem is that I would have to do it alone as my better half would have nothing to do with living in a camper. Quiet frankly, the trip just wouldn't be the same today. I would have to sleep with a Glock under my pillow.  I will have to be satisfied with re-reading some of the better parts of Steinbeck's book from time to time. Forgive me if my eyes glaze over for just a second when ever I see a camper with a guy and a dog pass by. 

Ten Years

A few days ago, I met a neighborhood friend at the mailboxes. He was obviously not in his normal friendly, out going mood. I asked him what was going on. He sighed and asked how old were my grandchildren. I told him and he said, " Spend as much time as you can with them now. You know you only have ten years." I already knew that he and his wife had raised their only grand child. Their only daughter had gone back to work a few months and they, being retired, gladly took over the care of their grandson. My friend continued, "He is ten now and no long has any interest in us". "We only see him on holidays". "It's really sad, you know" he said. 

I never had giving it much thought before, but I remembered  my own grand parents. They were on my mothers side and we lived in the same town. I spent a lot of time with both of them during my early years. My grand father had a meat market and he would travel around to all the local farms and buy livestock. I loved riding with him in what then seemed at the time, like a huge truck. My grandmother , on the other hand, had a big back yard where she grew many vegetables. I loved helping her pick those and the figs and grapes that she also grew. She always had a half dozen or so of laying hens and it was like a treasure hunt looking for their eggs.    

I was about ten when I got involved in school activities and reverted to seeing them only on special occasions. 

I finished high school and moved away to continue my life. 

Fifteen years later I returned with my wife and son to my home town after having purchased a local business there. My grandfather had passed and my grandmother while still alive, was is very poor health. At thirty-three I realized for the first time how important my grandparents had been in my life and regretted that I had never thanked them for everything they had done. I wondered if they were saddened when I stopped visiting them. 

My friend was right. When it comes to the joy of being grandparents, we only have ten years. 

¿Sabe Pecho?

My Dad loved to go deep-sea fishing. In the late 1950's he would fly his private plane to Cancun. The development of Cancun the resort started around 1970. When my Dad was going there was nothing there but a coconut plantation. The people that worked the plantation lived on the Isla Mujeres , an island about 10 miles off the coast of Cancun. There was a dirt runway where he landed his plane and then he would charter one of the local fishing boats. Around 1992, we won a five-day trip to Cancun. My wife and I could not both leave our business, so my son and I went. When my Dad heard that we were going, he asked me to try to find the guy that used to take them on his fishing boat. His name was Pecho Megallion and his teenage son was also namedPecho. My Dad supplied me with a black and white poloroid photo of Pecho and his son on thier boat. We arrived at Cancun and started enjoying all the activities that were preplanned for us. The third day, we were to take the ferrie out to Isla Mujeres. Lots of tourist would go out to the island to go snorkleing. We went, but the water was too rough and we got tired. We still had some time before we had to catch the ferry back to Cancun, so we decided to see if we could find Pecho. It became immediatly obvious that everyone on the Island knew Pecho. However, no one knew for sure where he was at that moment. He must have been related to half the island. One cousin took us to a resturnat that belonged to a uncle. They had seen Pecho earlier, but didn't know about now. We followed this cousin all over town , going from store to store. We were in a fish market when the ferry blew its whistle to call everyone back. We started back towards the ferry and the cousin walked with us. We were going to board the ferry when the cousin called out to us that Pecho was right there. We looked , and there was a anchent fishing boat with a man working on top. We understood that the man was Pecho. The ferry still was waiting for other passangers, so we went down and walked over to where Pechos boat was tied up. He came up to us a bit uneasy as he had no idea why we were looking for him. I held out the black and white photo to. He studied it for a while and then he said, "Dios Mio, Como Son joven" or "My God, how young I was". My spanish is pretty good and I tried to explain about my Dad fishing with him and his father. He feigned understanding.. not sure if he did. The ferry blew the final whitle , so my son quickly took a photo of me with Pecho and then we left. When we got back home, I made a copy of the old photo and the new and sent them to Pecho. I don't know if he received them. ©2009

Rolls-Royce

It was an unusual deal from the start. We had an elderly customer from another town who came in occasionally for service on her vintage car. We became friends and always enjoyed seeing her as she had traveled widely and had many interesting stories about her travels. She called us one day and had an unusual request. We had never discussed her family, so we were surprised to hear that had a son in his late thirties who had been jogging in the park in Houston and had suffered a heart attack and died. She was in California with her daughter and wanted us to go to Houston and pick up a 1978 Rolls-Royce that had belonged to her son. She wanted to get a new Crown Victoria and wanted to trade in the Rolls-Royce. We had no idea what the Rolls was worth. We told her we would have to do some checking around and would get back to her in a few days. I made a bunch of calls to auto wholesales trying to come up with a number. She had said that the Rolls was in very good condition, but I had learned many years before that what the customer thought was "good condition" seldom was. With some apprehension, we came up with a trade value and called her. She was satisfied and told us the car was being stored by a friend and that they would be willing to drive it and meet us halfway from Houston. It was set up to meet on a Saturday afternoon. As we sat waiting in the Dairy Queen parking lot, my imagination ran wild and I envisioned the Rolls being delivered with a wrecker. When they pulled into the parking lot, all my fears evaporated. It was beautiful! For the first time in my life, I eased behind the wheel of a Rolls-Royce. It was a dream to drive and felt like I was floating down the highway. There was a gold plaque above the glove box that said , "Built Especially for Kemmie Adare". We found out later that she was the wife of Red Adare, the oil well fire fighter. We only had it on display for a few hours. We got a lot of curious people coming and wanting to take it for a test ride. We moved it around the back into the shop and covered it with some sheets. This car needed a special person. We had a little conference and decided that we only had a few customers that might be candidates to buy this unusual car. A few months passed and then my wife thought of a customer that we only saw a few times a year. He had purchased a large farm nearby and had been in the process of turning it into a "gentleman's ranch". He was one of the wealthy people from Houston that bought up the farms and turned them into weekend get-a-ways. My wife called up My Honeywell and told him about the Rolls. He was interested and wanted to test drive on Saturday afternoon. We closed at noon, so we went home , had lunch and returned for the 3PM appointment. Mr Honeywell arrived and I handed him the keys and I went around and sat on the passenger side. He started off slow as he got the feel of the car. We got a few miles out of town on a farm to market road and then he turned East on what the kids called Thunder Road when I was in high-school. It was about fifteen miles long and almost perfectly straight. It had been the road of choice for anyone wanting to race. As we went down the road, Mr Honeywell kept increasing the speed. I didn't say anything till he hit ninety. The I started screaming, "Mr Honeywell, slow down!" He was like a man possessed. Finally, at 105, he let off the gas. I was speechless. He pulled into a gravel driveway to turn around and we returned to the dealership. I was still speechless when we got out of the Rolls. My wife was there waiting and asked , "Well Mr Honeywell, what do you think?" He smiled at her and said, "I'll take it".

Where Did I Hide It?

I have been in the clean up/throw away mood this past week. We eliminated a huge about of "stuff" when we moved here 14 years ago, but I had been accumulating more since then. My closet was packed. Even the extra shelf I installed 14 years ago was full. I have put a lot on Ebay to try to sell for pennies on the dollars of the original cost. Old cameras, both still and video are not worth much. A lot went in the trash and the rest is part of a growing stack awaiting the heavy trash pickup new week. I also went after the small attic space that is above our garage. My wife poked her head up there and asked what was in the large box that was pushed in the back. I had not idea so we brought it down into the garage. Digging through all the plastic peanuts reveled a brass and crystal chandelier that we had removed from our last house. We had both forgotten about it. Put it on Craig's list , but haven't had any offers yet. Actually we did have one offer. A women answered the ad and said she loved the old chandeliers but she had just purchased a new one and wanted to know if I would like to trade. Really?? I didn't even answer her. Thinking about the chandelier that we had forgotten , I remembered how many times I have heard about some impoverished person dies and then when relatives start sorting through their stuff, they find caches of money or other valuables. Some surmise that the person was a miser, but I think its just a matter of hiding stuff and then forgetting where they hid it. I have done that and should write a note to help me remember where I hide something. Only problem is that I wouldn't remember where I left the note.